Side of the Angels
by Redfeatherz66
Summary: -and saying he wasn't was practically begging the powers of irony and karma to smite him. So of course he would find himself unexpectedly burdened with a pair of feathered appendages. Molly POV, no slash. Back from hiatus!
1. Bothersome

**Title:** The Side of the Angels

**Rating:** T (for language, possible adult themes, possible drug use, no explicit bedroom scenes)

**Pairing: **We'll get there eventually. I'm not giving anything away.

**Episode Tag**: Post Reichenbach Fall

**Summary:** "I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for a moment that I'm one of them." He forgot to knock on wood. When he finds himself unexpectedly burdened with an extra pair of feathered appendages, he finds layer upon layer of mystery to unravel, with Molly's help.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own.

**Author's Notes:** This takes place a few months after the Fall- we're going to assume that Sherlock survived, Molly helped him fake his death, but they had very little contact after that as he worked on plans unknown to her. The story is written in Molly's point of view, with occasional third-person limited behind Sherlock.

I will post after two reviews, no earlier. If it's just a hello, or a critique, or just telling me to hurry the heck up and update, it counts- I just like to see that this is actually being read.

**CHAPTER ONE**

"Molly, would you mind getting me some coffee?" Sherlock asked without looking up from the microscope he was operating.

I nodded, realized his eyes were still glued to the eyepiece, and replied out loud. "Sure. Three sugars, no cream, right?"

"Correct. Would you mind getting it from the third floor kitchen? The filters for that one are more reliable and the water doesn't get quite so painfully hot as the first and second floors," he requested. Well, 'requested' in a loose definition of the word- it was more like 'ordered'. I didn't mind, though.

"No problem," I said. I headed for the elevator, and found it was full. The nurse inside gave me a sympathetic look. Behind her, a little boy stuck out his tongue. I sighed and made my slow way up the stairs.

I wasn't even halfway up the first flight before I decided that I wanted a coffee as well. It would be like a coffee date, except in a morgue, and with me on the clock, and without either of us talking much. Still, closest thing I could probably ever have to a coffee date with Sherlock Holmes.

I turned around and went back to retrieve my favorite purple mug. It was of the perfect thickness, not too thin to burn my hands, but not too thick to not radiate heat. It had been a gift from some ex-boyfriend somewhere along the line. I idly wondered if Sherlock would ever go on a date with me. I'd thought that, after I'd helped him fake his death, he would come hide at my flat, or he would really pay attention to me. Alas, alas- nothing changed, even after he was redeemed and 'reanimated'.

Pushing one of the doors open, I stepped into the lab and saw something shocking and remarkable.

A part of me wasn't even surprised.

Sherlock had been mid-stretch when I'd thrown open the door, hands together and arms pulled up over his head, pulling and loosening the muscles in his back and shoulders. He'd also been stretching his wings.

Wings. Oh, god, what?

He folded them back up (there was no other word for the way they pulled in and fit to his back) hurriedly in reaction to me entering, but wasn't fast enough. One of his wingtips hit a beaker in his rush, and knocked it to the ground. About a meter and a half away from him.

Wings.

He slowly rose to his feet, holding his hands up in a gesture of innocence and kindness. "Molly…" he said slowly. I heard him as if through water.

"You… you have wings," I said stupidly. I blinked rapidly. "I think I'm going into shock," I said in a faint voice. I swayed, and he quickly helped me to a chair. I was too dazed to even appreciate the feeling of his hands around my shoulders.

"Do you need a beverage or something?" he asked. I shook my head, the reality of what had just happened hitting me hard.

Sherlock Holmes had wings. They were almost burned into my mind, and I could still see the edges of them around his back- he hadn't folded them all the way, and they hung loose-like. White, with the tips of the feathers ranging from grey to black. They didn't look extraordinarily angelic- rather, they looked oddly normal and natural, the patterning random and soft-looking.

_Snowy owl_, I identified absentmindedly. I'd had a grandmother who'd loved birds- we'd gone to the countryside once a year and would eat organic home-cooked foods, bird watch, and help with her garden. Of course he would be a snowy owl.

"Sherlock?" I said.

"Hmm?" he mumbled, making a face as he rolled his shoulders and shuffled his wings, trying to accomplish something (I wasn't sure what) and having no success.

"Why do you have wings?"

"No idea. They're just as novel to me as they are to you, believe me." He stopped fidgeting and sighed with frustration. "They were sore from being folded so tightly, and I figured you walking up three flights of stairs would give me plenty of time to stretch them a little. But no, you had to oversleep this morning and not have coffee at your usual time. And now I can't get them back under my shirt!"

I didn't bother asking how he knew I was going to have to take the stairs, or how he knew I'd overslept. "Here, just a second." I stood and went around behind him. I couldn't help but run a hand over the edge of one. They didn't feel ethereal or especially one temperature or the other. They didn't feel like sugar cane or snow or mist or light. They felt like feathers- warm, dusty and oily at the same time, papery and brittle.

"What are you doing?" he snapped. I sighed.

"Sorry. Just a second." I saw where he'd cut holes in the back of his shirt to allow them freedom, carefully grabbed the edge of one, and helped him fold it. I located the joints and pressed on them, like collapsing a table, and slid it through the cut. We repeated the process on the other side.

"Thank you," he said stiffly, getting his black suit-jacket-blazer and pulling it back on, hiding all evidence of the wings in the first place. I could see that his back was slightly less thin and waifish than usual, but I figured it was only because of twenty-twenty hindsight… and that I was always watching him carefully.

"So, um… how come you have wings?" I asked.

"I already said- no idea."

"Okay…" I tried again. "How long have you had wings?"

"Couple of days. I decided to sleep the other day, and when I woke up eighteen hours later, I was ill and had wings. It's taken all of my time and effort just to hide them- I spent another hour with the door shut, trying to figure out what muscles made them move. My work has suffered accordingly," he said dourly.

"Can you fly?"

"Were you listening? I hardly know how to move them! They're quite a bother," he said angrily. "I can't get rid of them, either- somehow, the nerves in them have connected with my own nervous system."

"Okay, um… we'll run some tests, see if we can figure where they came from, then maybe we can find out how to get rid of them?" I said, ending with it sounding like a question. I told myself to stop being such a wet noodle around him.

"Precisely my idea. This slide isn't a footprint sample, it's a bit of one of my feathers," he confessed. "But with your aid, I can gain access to more of the labs without having to sneak."

"Right!" Collaborating on a secret project with Sherlock- this would be interesting. "May I…?" I gestured to the microscope. He nodded and stepped back, allowing me to look.

I sent out a quick mental thank-you to my grandmother as I looked. I noticed no abnormalities- it looked, for all intents and purposes, like a normal bird feather. Hollow shafts, delicate-looking yet strong tubes of the feather.

"Looks normal enough to me," I commented. "You said you were ill?"

"Yes- I woke up with a high fever, disorientation, vomiting, and diarrhea. After about three hours, it was gone as fast as it had come."

"Do you have any theories on how this happened?"

"A few. I'm looking into the biggest one tomorrow night." I waited for him to say what his theories were, and then realized he wasn't saying.

"What is that?" I said, pressing.

"If it yields results, I'll let you know," he said grimly.

"If you're worried I'm going to tell, or be put in danger or something, I won't-,"

"I'm not in the least bit worried about that," he said briskly, taking the slide, removing the bit of feather, and pulling a lighter from a drawer.

"Oh," I said, a bit put out. Of course he wasn't worried about me- he hardly acknowledged my existence unless he was using me. I allowed a moment of self-pity about the fact that I let him use me, because I was desperate for any interaction with him at all.

He continued speaking as he burned the shred of feather- the barb, I recalled. "I don't mean that in a heartless manner- John has explained to me that I'm often rude to you, and is working on 'moralizing' me. I mean that you wouldn't expose me, as nobody would believe you, for starters. You don't have anyone close enough to you to tell, and finally, you think too highly to be disloyal."

I blushed at his casual mention of my 'loyalty' to him. It was more like obsession, and I was fairly certain he was aware of that.

"And I'm not worried about you being in danger. You've taken multiple self-defense classes since 'Jim from IT' turned out to be a criminal, and all of the classes were quite advanced and thorough. I have complete confidence in your fighting ability, unless confronted with a sniper, which, unfortunately, is one of dear Jim's favorite pawns."

"I don't want to talk about Jim," I said in a low voice. I really didn't.

He glanced at the clock. I followed his gaze- it was almost lunch time.

"Let's continue this discussion over an afternoon meal," he suggested (as if I would ever say no). I blinked at him, unable to keep the corners of my mouth curling up a little in amazement and happiness. It was a dual joy- the fact that Sherlock was eating was fantastic, and the fact that he was eating _with me_ was even more brilliant. I firmly told myself it wasn't a date, but I did mental jumps-for-joy regardless.

"Really?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, the addition of these two new appendages seem to have increased my necessary caloric intake. Usually I can go a day or two with one meal a day, but now I'm ravenous and faint if I eat less than 3,000 calories a day. As I said- bothersome," he explained as he pulled on his coat and scarf. I grabbed my jacket and purse as well, mind slipping to a different track, from hopelessly, damnably school-girl-crush-like to science mode.

"You have more to feed. More muscles, but that wouldn't make such a massive change. When we get back, I'll ask Janet if we can borrow the MRI room for a little while, so I- we, can see what other changes have happened. I doubt wings appearing on your back was the only alteration- I've read up on a bit of theoretical recombinant DNA research and trans-species grafting, and they usually produce extensive changes," I said, letting the science flow over my nervousness (almost always present around Sherlock) and admiration/obsession (again, always around Sherlock).

"Good. We'll research it more, of course, but you can provide us with a tolerable base," he said, heading for the doors.


	2. Symptoms

**Author's note: **This chapter has a lot of science, so bear with me. Ask any questions you'd like via review, and I'll answer to the best of my ability. If this chapter seems a little bland, don't worry, the action will start soon.

**Chapter Two**

"Good. We'll research it more, of course, but you can provide us with a tolerable base," he said, heading for the doors.

I followed him, not knowing our destination and not particularly caring. He was observant enough that I was sure he knew what foods I liked and didn't like, and he had the entirety of London mapped out in his head. Also, from talking to John (Sherlock often ditched him at the lab, dashing off and leaving him in his dust) I'd heard that Sherlock knew all the best food places, despite his spotty eating habits.

We arrived at a little Italian shop around the corner, one I'd hardly known existed. When we stepped in from the cool early-spring air, I breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of warm bread, basil, and tomato. I wondered if he'd chosen the place because Italian was one of my favorite types of cuisine (followed closely by Mexican, then American, then Canadian).

"High-calorie and carbohydrates. I can't pack three thousand calories into a single meal, but I can get about a thousand here without much of a problem," he said by explanation.

"And you enjoy Italian," he added. My immediate area seemed brighter, even though I knew he was just showing off his observation, and it meant nothing.

We chose a table deep within the restaurant, away from the chilly windows and where the scents were powerful. The waiter gave us table settings and a bowl of tomato-potato crisps. I ordered a creamy vegetable gnocchi soup, an olive-basil breadstick, and a caffè macchiato. Sherlock ordered in fluent Italian, pleasing the shopkeeper and earning us free beverages.

"You speak Italian very well. What did you say?" I asked, popping one of the tomato-potato crisps in my mouth.

"I ordered turkey and vegetable ravioli in alfredo, two breadsticks, a salad with cream dressing, and the same beverage as you. I learned to speak Italian at the private school Mycroft and I attended until university- we were permitted to chose two extra subjects of our own interest each semester. I spent three years selecting only languages," he said with a shrug, as if it was of no concern. He examined one of the crisps critically.

"Wow. Sounds rigorous," I said, thinking of the rough (yet friendly) public schools I'd gone to.

"It kept us occupied. For a while, at least. By my final year, I was quite bored with it. I didn't even go to university."

"Is that when the drugs started?" I asked, then clapped a hand over my mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't… I just…" I stammered. It had sounded innocent and coy in my mind, but hadn't come out that way.

"No, actually, I think it was the other way around- the drugs making it boring, not the boring making me do drugs," he said thoughtfully. "It was a valid question."

"Oh. Well… have you ever gone back to them?" I asked timidly, curiosity outmatching my shyness.

"That is not a valid question," he said curtly. "Your scientific interest is quite impressive, though. It will be a good tool in our research. And, about that research," he said, gracefully steering us back on topic.

"Right, yes. Wings. You were going to tell me what theory you were testing tomorrow night?"

"Ahh, good try, Molly. I was not." We shared a smile for a brief moment. "We were discussing recombinant DNA theories and trans-species grafts."

"Yes. Well… recombinant DNA hasn't been tested much. It's highly illegal, and I don't see that changing any time soon, unless either the church or the scientists back down, or there's an agreement found. Anyways, there was a small amount of research on it, but it was outlawed too fast for anything extensive. I've heard rumors of other countries dabbling in it a little, though. The most rumors come from America, but they're practically famous for their wild stories, so I'm not sure how legitimate they are."

"Illegitimate ideas are better than none at all. Go on," he said, digging into the crisps.

"Recombinant DNA usually kills before the experiment can even be tested. Stillborn, at worst. There are the common cross-breeds like ligers and zebroids and mules. All successful, but infertile." A moment of terror came over me- would Sherlock want to test _that_? I continued best as I could. "There are also hybrids that are not cross-breeds, but test-tube babies, so to speak. These are mostly rumor. I don't think any of it has actually been done."

"Well, _something_ has happened here, and I don't believe it's divine intervention," he said, and then thanked the waiter as he appeared with our meals. I was glad I'd thought to get soup- it was easy to eat between talking, with minimal chewing time.

"Okay… so there are theories about animals being crossed that could never actually be crossed. I've heard about rabbit-monkeys and shark-fish and snake-turtles, you know? And really weird things, that aren't even in the same animal kingdom, like hawk-lizards and alligator-dogs. Ridiculous things. And…" I hesitated, wondering if I should even bother saying it, but I did anyways, "mixing things with birds is a very popular rumor. Putting wings on things, but the avian DNA manifests in other ways, too, like full-body feathers and hollow bones and odd talons."

"I see," he mumbled, spearing a few ravioli and devouring them. "I wonder how the hereditary processes- like replication and transcription- would be affected if the genotypes were so different." He frowned at his plate, already half-empty of the massive heap of pasta.

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "Like I said, they're rumors. Area 51 and Roswell and jackalopes."

"Well, I have wings. Not a rumor," he said bluntly. I shushed him and glanced around. He shrugged again, unworried.

"Nobody is listening. Nobody ever does," he scoffed.

"Still…" A thought struck me. "Why do you want to get rid of them, anyways? You have _wings_. Shouldn't you want to learn to fly, or something?"

"Good lord, see what I mean about not listening? Firstly, I already explained how much of a bother they are. Maybe if I were a countryside small-town dreamer, then I would keep them. But I was content with my life as it was- wingless. The sooner I can get back to solving problems that don't have to do with mysterious feathered appendages, the better.

"Second- weren't you just telling me that human experimentation, or editing, or whatever you want to call _this_," he said, moving his shoulders, "is highly illegal? London is not a place that can keep secrets, and I don't want the bother of even trying. If people find out, then the government and scientists, and all those other higher-ups or whatever, they'll flock to this, excuse the pun. And lastly, what we're doing is a prime example of what would happen if I was found out, but on a much larger scale. Every scientist is going to want to run tests, invasive and irritating tests. _And_ there are the religious sects who would explode with news about winged beings and whatever other fool ideas they can come up with," he explained, waving a hand dismissively. "I don't want or need wings. They'll only bring trouble."

"Oh." All his points made sense. Still, a part of me wished I'd been the one who'd woken up with wings.

"We can study these rumors more in depth after lunch, and try to sort out the false information. You've talked about DNA hybridization, now what about grafting?"

"Grafting is more predictable, but much more difficult. If your wings were grafted, then they'd have to be grown first, or removed from something else. But there aren't any birds with wings that big, so they'd have to be grown, which is incredibly difficult. Putting the right cells in place and encouraging them to grow isn't hard- the difficult part is growing them in the correct 3D form. Making a sheet of cells is easy. Making it grow up and in the right directions the right amount, and gaps for veins and such… very difficult. That's why they can't grow hearts for transplants or anything yet- they have to get it to grow with the holes and arteries and in the right shape.

"It's more predictable, though, because you don't have all the unexpected manifestations. Like… if your wings were made from DNA hybridization, then it wouldn't just make you grow wings, it would change the rest of you in unforeseen ways… like your metabolism. That's why I think grafting is less likely, as well as it being scientifically impossible to grow wings like that. But then, avian-human DNA recombination is impossible too." I furrowed my brow. "A few quick x-rays and MRI's will show us which it is, if it's either of them."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't DNA recombination done in fetal growth? I didn't think it could be done with an already-grown creature, like me," he mused, finishing his coffee and gesturing for the waiter.

"No, you're right, so I have no idea how you go from normal to… this," I said.

"Hmm… Yes, I would like the apple crostata. Molly?" he asked. I glanced quickly at the dessert menu.

"Um, I'd like… a slice of the buttercream… jen-oise," I said, struggling to pronounce it and resorting to pointing to the picture. I wasn't sure what it was- some kind of cake, obviously, but it looked good.

"_Génois_," Sherlock corrected for me. The waiter nodded and departed.

"I've never heard of genetically engineering something after it was born," I continued. "To do that, you would have to change the DNA of every cell in your entire body, which is why it's done very early in development, so the first few cells are changed, then as they multiply they keep the new genetic material and all of the daughter cells have the new material as well. I've got no idea how it could be done to a creature after birth."

"Hmm," he mumbled again. When our dessert arrived, he asked more questions about theories and rumors I heard in the medical field. I did my best to answer, but felt like I knew an awfully small amount.

"What about other things?" I asked.

"Specify 'things'?" he said, in that computer-like way he had.

"Well… you're treating this like a disease or something. Like we're looking for a cure. Then we need to look at symptoms too. Anything out of the ordinary that happened. What changes you've noticed." He looked at me for a moment, tapping his spoon thoughtfully on his bottom lip.

"You're absolutely right. This isn't a mystery or a case- not yet, at least. Now it's a disease. Good idea," he said mildly. I felt my face blush and ignored it.

"Th-thank you. So what are the 'symptoms'?"

"Well, I woke up two days ago with wings," he said with a smirk.

"Aside from the obvious," I said, returning the smug grin. "I figured that out without you telling me."

"Yes, 'figured it out'. You walked in at a chance moment," he sniffed. "I digress. The symptoms. Hunger, necessity for an excessive amount of calories. 3,000, minimum. 4,500 seems to be the most comfortable range. A little less need for sleep, and increased energy."

"The less sleep and more energy are symptoms of symptoms- a result of the increased metabolism. We'll do an MRI of your hypothalamus when we get pack." I pulled a green sticky note pad out of my purse and a pen and wrote _hypothal. MRI_. I loved sticky notes- they kept me organized. My desk was full of them in different colors and shapes.

"I can remember it all, you know," he told me.

"I like to use these," I said defensively.

"Fine. As well as the metabolism changes, I've found my pulse has a much larger range than before. I also breathe more slowly, and I noticed yesterday, when John and I were chasing a suspect, that my endurance was increased. My fingernails seem thinner, as well"

"Fitness test, lung scans, blood cell counts, bone density tests, and ultrasound for heart," I said, jotting each down as I said it."

"I have feathers on the back of my neck."

"_What?_"

"I'm not sure what tests we can perform to delve more into that- maybe a skin test to make sure I'm not going to start sprouting feathers everywhere?" he mused.

I took a deep breath, counted to four, and recited all of my family's birthdays in my head. Then I jotted down _neck feathers- skin check?_

"Have I unnerved you?" he said thoughtfully.

_No, not at all, I deal with spontaneous avian-human hybridization all the time,_ I thought hysterically. "A little… taking a scientific approach to it made it less… I don't know, _real, _I guess… just every time you mention something really odd, like wings or feathers or flying, I'm just hit by how absolutely _insane_ this is," I said with a slightly manic laugh. _Breathe, breathe._

"Perhaps you shouldn't have had that cappuccino," he observed. I laughed again, and this time it was more normal, less freaked out.

"I suppose I shouldn't be all shocked. I can't imagine how this makes you feel," I said empathetically. He frowned.

"Most people assume that I don't feel." I blinked and looked shyly down at my napkin.

"Do you?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

**Two reviews please kthanks.**


	3. Inhuman

**Author's Note:** Good heavens! I hadn't expected all the attention this has gotten, after only two chapters. I'm flattered- thank you all! Now, to those who mentioned the science behind it all:

To faeryenchanter- Yes! One of my favorite series, along with James P's other Max-based books (When the Wind Blows and The Lake House). Truth be told, I've based a little bit of this on ideas found from that. MR is what got me interested in wings (years and years ago, when the very first book came out) and I've maintained it, and it sort of helped me produce this.

Olivethebreloom- Thank you! The scientific stuff comes from a general appreciation of anatomy and biology (I absolutely love biology, especially anatomy and how things work). I'm actually schooling to become a biological engineer. Don't worry, I'm not into illegal projects or anything. I just like the 'what if' stuff- like wings. I haven't taken very high level classes yet, but here's what I've managed to construct in my mind (forgive me if it doesn't make sense): The scapula is indeed modified, but only slightly. I used an image of a scapula from Wikipedia to help me envision it. The shoulder blade itself is a bit different in shape- the top of the 'triangle' of it is flat, rather than sloping downward, and has a thicker ridge that protrudes slightly. This ridge is hollowed out at the end that is closest to the spine (farthest in to the back, away from the shoulders) and forms the socket for a shoulder-like joint. It's a bit hard to explain… but it's like an extra shoulder joint connected to a bulbous socket end on the top central corner of the scapula.

Juze: read on and see! ;D Nahh, just kidding… he will not turn into a giant bird, because if he did, I would mourn the loss of a fabulous part of our species.

And thanks also to harveygirl, illegalpen, and FangFan. Now. Onward!

**Chapter 3**

"I suppose I shouldn't be all shocked. I can't imagine how this makes you feel," I said empathetically. He frowned.

"Most people assume that I don't feel." I blinked and looked shyly down at my napkin.

"Do you?"

"I don't know," he said honestly, standing and putting his jacket and scarf on. I followed less elegantly- I got one arm in and couldn't find the other, to my embarrassment. Suddenly, my arm slipped in easily. He'd gone behind me and held it up by the collar, helping. I blushed furiously.

"Oh, thank you," I muttered, ducking my head and looking up at him through my lashes. The corners of his lips curled in a here-then-gone smile (my heart fluttered, though I was sure he was mocking me), and we quickly paid for our meals and made our way back to the morgue.

"You aren't busy today," he said suddenly when we'd gotten back.

"No," I said uncertainly. He frowned, and I could practically see the gears of his mind whirling.

"So- let's go get the MRI's done while everyone else is still having lunch," I offered. He nodded.

The tests went by quickly, and mostly without a hitch. After each test, I was careful to print one copy for Sherlock, load the data onto a USB stick, and then delete all record of it from the computer. He nodded when he saw what I was doing.

Two of the tests were a bit uncomfortable- the ultrasound and the fitness test.

We decided to do an ultrasound over his full torso. I was glad of my morgue experience of working with naked bodies- I'd perfected the art of looking at skin without blushing or looking in the wrong places, and when I had to put the gel on his bare chest, he was pale enough that I could tell myself that it was just a body. My hands didn't even shake, though I flinched when he did, when I first touched the gel to his stomach.

"Sorry," I said instinctively, not knowing what I'd done.

"Your hands are icy," he remarked, cringing slightly. I knew my hands were usually cold- my toes were always cold, too. I had bad circulation, a commonality in the women in my family.

"Sorry. I forgot about that. The cadavers never complain," I said jokingly. He didn't laugh. "Your skin is very warm, though." I frowned. "A bit too warm. We'll check body temperature next."

The fitness test made me awkward as well. It was one thing to smear gel on a pretend corpse while he was lying on a slab in a morgue. It was another thing entirely to see Sherlock Holmes- always well-dressed, no matter the occasion (or lack thereof)- wearing sports shorts and no shirt, and to stick electrodes to his skin while he stood and watched.

Then I had to watch while he ran on a treadmill. It was the longest test, by a long ways. I knew he was fit- I'd heard John or Lestrade talk about him running all over London, or ending the occasional scuffle quickly and efficiently- but this was madness.

No, not madness- it was _inhuman_. I wondered if that was what he was now.

He ran at a leisurely jog for five minutes. When his heart rate (which we'd recorded at rest to be a terrific 35 bpm) didn't increase at all, we slowly increased the speed. At a medium run, where normally someone would be almost to max heart rate, his had still barely increased.

In high school, I'd joined my school's cross country running team, and had continued into college. I knew a lot about pacing. When Sherlock was running at a 5:30-mile pace, which was a quite fast mile for a girl, and an average mile for a boy. His face was relaxed and composed, breathing steady, wings tucked in neatly.

He kept it up for four miles.

We turned the machine up to a 4:30-mile pace, and his heart rate finally reached max. That was a 13:30 5K time, unthinkably fast for a girl, improbably fast for a boy. The world-record 5K time for men was somewhere around 12:30. Sherlock kept it up for the full 5 kilometers before beginning to tire.

In a minute and a half, his heart rate returned to 35 bpm. He had been exercising for almost an hour.

I processed the data while he showered and got dressed again in one of the hospital locker's, staring at the screens. I jumped suddenly, two ideas clicking together in my mind, and pulled out my phone. I sent one message. It said, _Impressive- this is a new high, even for you._ I sent it, deleted the record of it from my phone, and put it back in my pocket. A snarky reply came back quickly, and I deleted that too.

"I believe there are definitely manifestations other than just the wings and feathers," Sherlock said dryly when he returned, running a hand through his wet hair.

"Mm-hmm," I managed, staring at the results on my laptop screen. Combined, it was overwhelming. He shuffled some of the papers, scanning them quickly.

"I'm not looking at these here- I don't want to risk any more discovery. I'm going back to the flat to analyze them," he decided, shutting the folder and retrieving his things.

"I'm coming with you," I said quickly. He looked at me with mild surprise.

"Courageous, Molly, venturing to the lair?" he said, using the nickname that Donovan and Anderson used for his flat.

"I want to see the results. I'm part of this now. If this is a disease, and I'm a pathologist, then… well, I want in," I said firmly, quavering under his gaze but standing my ground.

"Fine," he said. We took a cab and were quiet. I tried to engage conversation a few times, but was met with silence or short answers. I understood why John complained about him so much.

"Where have you been all day?" John asked, sitting in his chair with his laptop on his lap. He looked up and noticed me. "Oh, hello, Molly. I, uh… what are you doing here?" he asked politely.

"Helping me with some research. Get out," Sherlock said, hanging his jacket. I removed mine and looked around awkwardly, not sure where to put it, before draping it over the back of a chair. It wasn't the first time I'd been to 221B- I vividly recalled the Christmas party. But that had been a party- this felt different and uncomfortable. I was reminded of a few study sessions in university where I'd gone to other people's flats, and felt the same way- out of place, and trying not to look it.

"Research? And why?" John asked, scowling.

"Yes, research. Go visit your girlfriend, or take your laptop to your room."

"Is this a secret project?"

"Yes. Now go." John looked from Sherlock to me. I gave him an apologetic look, and he sighed.

"Fine." He shut his laptop and grabbed his jacket. I heard the door close.

"That wasn't very polite," I scolded, opening the file.

"Politeness is ridiculously time-consuming as well as boring," he shrugged and tore a series of pictures and maps from one of the walls, and began tacking up the data we'd gotten today.

I hesitated, watching the back of his neck, remembering the feathers. He noticed, of course.

"Oh, that. Do you want to see?" He stepped off the couch and turned around. "Go ahead and look." I hesitated, and then pulled the back of his shirt collar down gently.

Yep. Feathers. Just down feathers, and a few very small other feathers. The back of his hair was long enough to conceal them, combined with his shirt collar. I pushed some of his hair out of the way, and saw that they seemed to grow right out of his hair. They were black and soft and warm. I resisted the urge to knot my fingers in them.

"Wow," I said, stepping back.

"Could you help me…? They're still cramped, and since John isn't coming back for a while and Mrs. Hudson is out for the evening…" he suggested, staying back-to.

"Of course." He discarded his outer jacket, leaving the plum-colored button-up with the slits in the back. I pulled open a slit and reached in, finding his wingtip, and guided it out.

The wing flared suddenly, almost hitting me. I staggered back a step, barely making it out of the way. He huffed in frustration, rolling that shoulder uselessly.

"I'm sorry. It's like they have a mind of their own. I'm still not used to them," he said apologetically.

"It's okay. Understandable," I squeaked. The other wing came out without a problem, and he extended it much more slowly and carefully with a sigh of relief.

"You have no idea how nice that feels. They're all sore, and my back is too, from keeping them in all the time." I reached out and touched one again, double-checking that they were real. "Imagine sitting on your legs for an entire day."

"I can't believe John hasn't noticed," I said. He frowned.

"Nor can I. Though it's only chance that you noticed. You aren't any more observant than John, and neither of you have any skills of deduction whatsoever." He paused, thinking. "You already know, though. And it would certainly be nice to have a place where I can leave them out without worry," he said. I saw where he was going and blanched.

"Wait, what? No, you can't… no," I said, shaking my head determinedly.

"Why not?" Under his silvery gaze, I found myself unable to come up with a single reason why not- I just knew that, _no_, he shouldn't. "Well then. I won't be living there, of course. Perhaps every other night would be enough to ease the pain in my wings, yet be enough for you to have your space. John has told me that people like that, their 'space'."

"Oh-okay," I stammered. He smiled encouragingly.

"Good. Then there's no point in hanging these here. It's getting to be evening anyways. We can head over now. I've just got to grab some things." He retreated down the hall to his room as I reviewed the conversation in my head and wondered where things had gone so wrong suddenly.

**The two-review thing is kind of gone, in the overflow of responses I've gotten (yay, keep it up), so I'll be posting every day, or every other day at the latest.**


	4. Sleeping Disorders

**Author's Note:** Bit of Sherlolly in this chapter! Keep up with the reviews and I'll post again soon. Thanks to illegalpen and barus for the reviews!

**Chapter 4**

"Wait, what? No, you can't… no," I said, shaking my head determinedly.

"Why not?" Under his silvery gaze, I found myself unable to come up with a single reason why not- I just knew that, _no_, he shouldn't. "Well then. I won't be living there, of course. Perhaps every other night would be enough to ease the pain in my wings, yet be enough for you to have your space. John has told me that people like that, their 'space'."

"Oh-okay," I stammered. He smiled encouragingly.

"Good. Then there's no point in hanging these here. It's getting to be evening anyways. We can head over now. I've just got to grab some things." He retreated down the hall to his room as I reviewed the conversation in my head and wondered where things had gone so wrong suddenly.

All he brought was a small duffel, and when we walked into my flat, he took off his shoes and hung his coat, perfecting what I'd failed to do earlier- appear natural and comfortable in someone else's place. I hated him for it, but somehow loved him all the more.

"I'll… make some tea. I don't have a spare bedroom," I apologized.

"I know," he replied, and I was sure he did. "But you do have a very nice couch, though it could use a vacuuming to remove some of the cat hair. You haven't entertained guests in a long time." He sat down experimentally on it. Toby got up from his spot on the side and started to slink away, but pale, nimble fingers caught him and pulled him back with surprising gentleness. I stared at the scene- Sherlock, stroking my cat, wriggling his shoulders to free his wings again (this time without my help- he was learning fast) and looking absolutely _domestic_. I shuddered and retreated to make tea.

When I came back, the coffee table was covered in the results of our day's examinations. All together, the data was shocking and surreal. Plowing through it, we managed to create a list of the changes we'd found.

As we'd suspected, his hypothalamus was working extremely efficiently and quickly, resulting in the fast metabolism and high energy Sherlock retained. That was part of where his fantastical running had come from, but mostly, it was from his heart and lungs. The change in his major organs would've been unbelievable, if I hadn't seen the scans myself.

His heart was powerful and massive. I was reminded of the horse heart I'd dissected in university- muscled and huge. His lungs were fractionally larger, measurably so, but not as much as his heart had changed. I'd noticed strange cysts around them, as well. More scans and tests had revealed them to be air sacs, like a bird. His other organs, like his liver, stomach, and digestive tract, were a bit smaller to allow room for his lungs and heart. He had almost no body fat.

His wings were jointed directly to his shoulderblades, and with all the scans we did, they looked and seemed just like bird wings, except huge (three and a quarter meter wingspan), and attached to a human. The bones in his wings were hollow, and the bones in the rest of his body weren't quite bird-bones (hollow, low density, much like a sponge made of bone) but they were less dense than human bones. His body temperature was about three degrees higher than the average human's, and his blood carried nuclei, like a bird's. His vision was 20/5.

We decided it was most definitely not grafting.

"You know what this means, right?" I said after looking over the list one more time.

"Yes. I will never be able to go to a hospital. A human blood donation would be rejected, I would appear to have a fever, my pulse would make any doctor believe I was dying, and I'm fairly certain the wings would result in a strongly negative reaction," he summed up. I nodded, stroking Toby absentmindedly. He sat on a pile of papers and I tugged them out from under him, scowling.

I looked down at the papers. They were the full-body x-rays I'd taken, wings extended. I'd had to take several x-rays and graft them together because, wings extended, he hardly fit in the room, let alone in the machine's range.

I swallowed with difficulty.

"Molly." I looked up at Sherlock, who was scratching Toby's ear.

"Hmm?"

"I… understand that this must be difficult for you. You probably feel overwhelmed and unnerved. If you're scared, I don't blame you. I can leave, if you'd like," he said slowly, not looking up.

"I… no, no, I'm a bit overwhelmed, sure, but I'm not… no, you can stay. Really. It's fine. Just a lot to digest. And I followed you back to 221B, and said I want in on this," I asserted. I wanted in. I _needed_ to be a part of this- backing out just wasn't an option. I couldn't let _him_ down.

"Well, I, ehrm, appreciate this," he said formally. "Thank you, for helping and taking this so well."

"You're welcome," I said, smiling. He returned it genuinely, then glanced at his watch.

"It's late. You probably want to go to bed." I noticed that he looked wide awake, and suddenly felt exhausted.

"Yeah. Yeah, I would." I stood up and rubbed my eyes. Moving mechanically, I washed up for bed and retrieved some spare blankets and pillows, setting up the couch for him while he organized and put away the papers and empty mugs.

"Again, I'm very grateful for this," he said.

"It's no problem, really. When… or, if, I guess, you decide to go to bed, bathroom is the first door to the left," I said. He nodded. I shuffled my feet. "Well… good night."

"Good night," he replied. I went to my room and shut the door gently behind me. Too tired to put on proper pajamas and hoping Sherlock would just respect the closed door (doubtful, but I was just so drained), I changed into an overlarge t-shirt and crawled into bed.

SH MH SH MH SH MH SH MH SH MH SH MH

Sherlock lay on his stomach on the couch, Molly's laptop in front of him. He'd yet to find a comfortable way to lie on his back, which disappointed him- it was his favorite way to rest and think. He was looking up rumors about genetic engineering and hybridization, sorting out what little truth he could find. It was very late- or, rather, very early- and he was only just starting to feel tired. Four in the morning and barely sleepy.

He scrolled the touchpad of the laptop with one hand, the other dangling off the side of the couch to scratch Toby. Petting a cat was surprisingly soothing and thought-provoking. Perhaps John would allow him to get one, or he would come to Molly's flat when he needed to think. Patches and Toby would be an excellent problem-solving duo.

A loud noise from the other room made him tense. Toby hissed and swung a paw at him, but he paid no notice. The sound… it was a hoarse scream.

Molly.

Moving more silently than he thought possible, he stood and tucked his wings in slightly. It felt like a natural part of his crouch, all his joints bent just a little. Down the hall, to Molly's closed door. Another sound- some sort of howl-sob? He slowly turned the knob and pushed it open.

The room was empty. No attackers. So what…? His eyes set on Molly, adrenaline boosting his vision in the dark. She was sitting at the edge of the bed, legs over the side, arms wrapped around her middle, bent almost double. He could hear her breathing from the doorway- hard and panicked, her nostrils flared like a skittish horse, eyes wide. Her bed-head hair was fluffy around her face, in what he supposed was a 'sultry' look.

"Molly?" he called gently, turning on the light. She howled and covered her eyes, so he shut it off quickly. He approached slowly and carefully, having experienced John in nightmare mode more than a few times. He knew better than to surprise her. She didn't react as he got closer to her. He crouched in front of her so he was lower than her, in a nonthreatening pose.

She avoided his eyes, looking around with panic. Something about it felt different than John's nightmares- she was too silent, and it was like she was absent or still sleeping. Sleepwalking? No, her breath was far too fast and unsteady for that. When John had nightmares, he was more conscious and focused than Molly was now. He was distracted and slightly glazed, whereas Molly wasn't functioning right at all.

"Molly? Are you awake?" he asked again. Her eyes wouldn't meet his. It was like she was having some sort of a fit.

"I- I- I- I… I d-don't know-oh," she said, stammering hard as she continued to breathe hard. She rocked slightly.

_Observation- disconnected, perhaps only semi-conscious, lack of eye contact, fast breathing,_ he paused his thinking to very, very slowly reach out and take her wrist. She flinched hard, but didn't pull away. Her skin was extremely hot, and her pulse was racing. _Fast pulse, high temperature, panic-attack like symptoms. Analysis- severe nightmare, no, not nightmare… night terror, or even sleepwalking combined with a nightmare_, he deduced, working half on observation and half on instinct.

He skimmed through what he knew about night terrors. It wasn't much- the topic had never held much relevance toward his work. He knew they were fairly common in young children, and extremely rare in adults- so was she actually having a night terror, or was it something else? He knew that the inflicted could panic (like Molly was obviously doing now) but he knew little else. He knew lots about sleepwalking. Mycroft had done it twice as a child.

Not knowing what else to do, he treated her the way he would John. "Why don't we get you some tea or something, and we'll sit down in the kitchen and you can talk if you want," he suggested. She nodded jerkily and stood, walking drunkenly behind him. Her head whipped around and her focus shifted wildly. _Hallucination?_ He wasn't sure, but that was what it seemed like- that she was seeing things in the air that weren't actually there.

Kitchen. There was something that people found soothing about the kitchen, usually related to childhood memories of their mothers, or, more likely, the fact that nothing exciting (and therefore bad) ever happened in the kitchen. As a child, he himself had enjoyed thinking sitting on the floor, letting the servants walk around him with aromatic bread and groceries.

Molly wasn't soothed. He guided her to a chair, but she didn't sit down. She paced, arms still wrapped around herself, shivering hard. The chattering of her teeth was irritating, but he did his best to dismiss the sound while he got the kettle going and found one of her favorite mugs.

"Would you like to tell me about the dreams?" he asked, serving the dual purpose of finding her something to do with her mouth other than make that chattering sound, and hopefully soothing her.

"I… I d-d-don't… I don't rem-m-member," she stuttered, barely able to speak. "There… there was glass, everything was glass, and lights… feathers, and…" she trailed off, her voice getting lower until it was indecipherable.

So talking about dreams wasn't helping. Neither was sitting down- she refused the chair, and he'd tried to put her in it but she really didn't want to sit.

Different tactic- consoling. He crouched in front of her again- he even took her hands in his, stopping her pacing. "It's okay. I'm here, Molly. It isn't real. Calm down." Simple, short commands, use of first name for familiarity. Textbook.

"I know. I know. I know," she said shortly, angrily, closing her eyes, deciding that was a bad idea, and opening them again.

"Sit down, drink some tea, and we'll get you back to sleep," he said, putting a hand on each of her shoulders and guiding her to the chair again. This time, she sat. He prepared them both tea and sat across from her, careful not to lean back and crush his wings. She didn't take the tea, just stared at it with eyes that were less wide than they were. It was like she was starting to go back to sleep (if she was even truly awake) again, terror forgotten.

"I just… I'm tired," she said, blinking. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's quite alright. Would you like to go back to bed?"

She nodded, looking more tired and, if possible, more pitiful. He felt empathy toward this girl, who he'd so ruthlessly manipulated, and had spent the whole day helping him of her own accord. Maybe all the manipulation had been unnecessary, and she would've helped anyways. He felt… apologetic. No, no, it was just that he owed her a debt for her loyalty and felt the need to repay her. That was exactly it.

"Come on, then," he said, not unkindly. He took her upper arm, but she flinched away from him so hard that she nearly fell over. Again, he felt that strange almost-apologetic protective sensation. She followed him back to her room again, moving like she was a ghost, from another world and still half in it. He noticed she had wool socks on, the tops pooled around her ankles… which were bare. She wasn't wearing pants, just the large t-shirt. Hmm.

Guiding her into bed (still not turning on any lights) he had to practically help her into bed, and pulled a single sheet back over her, as she was still very warm.

"Good night, Molly. I'm right in the other room if you need anything," he said.

"No, d-don't! Please, I'm scared," she whispered, eyes widening again. He hesitated.

"Do you want me to stay?"

She nodded affirmative.

He thought for a moment. _She desires nothing but a presence so she won't be alone and defenseless. She's warm, so I don't need to worry about her gravitating toward me in the night. She could stay under the sheet, while I sleep on top of it and under the duvet. In the morning, I will likely rise before her, so she can take whatever private waking-up time she would need._ He nodded. _Ideal reply: yes._

"Yes, I'll stay, then." He pulled the sheet over her and lay down beside it on his stomach (damn wings) and pulled the comforter up. By now, he was quite tired. One of his wings grazed her back, but she didn't flinch. Already, she was barely awake. He lay his head down and watched her until he too drifted to unconsciousness.


	5. The Games We Play

**Author's Note:** Hoo boy. It seems as though I have some incredibly smart readers! Let's hear it for using our gray matter, yes? I'm going to answer the reviews as best as I can, but I'm not even twenty yet, and some extended beyond my knowledge.

-Firstly, the night terrors. They're real, and they're not nightmares. It's an actual sleeping condition, and as said, more common in children, significantly less so in adults. Stress, anxiety, major changes in diet, or overheating can trigger them. I have them, despite being nineteen, and they happen only a few times a year. Okay, okay, so it was a little bit of self-insertion, but we all do that, put ourselves into the story and talk about things we know well. They're unpleasant at best. Sorry to disappoint, but I probably won't reveal Molly's dream- it isn't important to the plot, and honestly, I didn't actually plan it to be major or anything. I haven't even thought of what she could've dreamed- I just put together major things that would've been on her mind (glassware from the lab, feathers from Sherlock, lights because the little I remember about my own night terrors usually involves bright lights and fear) into a sort of mess that would be spat out by a freaking-out semi-conscious mind.

-To The Arcticourt Spellwright: your level of knowledge about anatomy and biology is astounding. I just… wow. Some of the things you mentioned actually will be mentioned in the future (can't say just what yet, but you'll see- I'll just say you hit the mark perfectly with some of your guesses) and might have major points in the plot. I wish I could say more, but I really want to keep you all guessing. As for the wing size and proper wing-weight ratio, I did struggle with that. For the purposes of the story, they need to be able to be hidden, as well as being large enough to fly him. I settled for a sort of compromise (not really fulfilling either requirement, but just grabbing a point between) of size. They're large, for sure. In my mind, I envision them to be massive. That is one point where I strayed from proper science, though. I hate to say it… but the only solution to this is for us to exercise our willing suspension of disbelief. Sorry :/

As for the Weismann barrier, again, I've got no answer. If I did, I would be a genius-millionaire genetic engineer. There are just some things about this story that I don't have real answers to, because they don't actually have answers in real life. We haven't figured out how to do this level of genetic engineering (or else I would spend my time in the clouds rather than writing) as of yet. Some things will be explained in this chapter.

-This is a long chapter, because it is unlikely that I'll post tomorrow or Tuesday (unless I get a boatload of reviews from hungry, threatening readers), and also because I just didn't want to stop you until the point that I end this chapter at- it's really the best stopping point where I can give you good material and not just stop in an awkward spot.

Thanks to Mrs Max McDowell, faeryenchanter, Vitawash, and The Arcticourt Spellwright.

I'll tell youse one thing, though. Someone will now appear. Someone we all know and love, despite his psychopathic tendencies…

**Chapter Five**

"Yes, I'll stay, then." He pulled the sheet over her and lay down beside it on his stomach (damn wings) and pulled the comforter up. By now, he was quite tired. One of his wings grazed her back, but she didn't flinch. Already, she was barely awake. He lay his head down and watched her until he too drifted to unconsciousness.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

When I woke in the morning, it was with a faint warm, dusty scent in my nose. Feathers. I rubbed my face tiredly, and then more rigorously when the previous day rushed back to me. Wings. And Sherlock- Sherlock Holmes, sleeping on my couch. I could smell eggs frying, an unusual scent in my flat. Don't get me wrong, I'm a great cook. Just not with breakfast foods- my father always spoilt me, making me big breakfasts one or two times a week, and I never learned to cook breakfast. I usually just had a bagel with cream cheese.

The smell was comforting. I was a bit woozy, but blamed it on the stress of the previous day. Eggs would help. I pulled on pajama pants and tied my hair out of my face, forcing myself to not look in the mirror, knowing I would stress and fret over Sherlock seeing me like that if I looked.

"Good morning," he greeted, not looking up from the frying pan. I stood in the doorway for a moment. Man with enormous snowy owl wings arching from shoulders. Man frying eggs. Man is Sherlock Holmes.

Right. Life as usual.

I dug out a few plates. "Smells good. Did you sleep okay? I know the couch isn't the most comfortable thing," I said apologetically. I was getting better at talking to him or around him. Perhaps sleeping in the same apartment as him had helped reduce the discomfort.

"I slept acceptably well. The couch isn't uncomfortable at all, though I didn't sleep on it. I stayed, as you requested."

I began to silently choke on the glass of orange juice I'd been drinking.

"Do you remember what you dreamed last night? You seemed extraordinarily distressed," he continued, sliding the perfectly cooked eggs onto one of the plates with ease. "You reacted quite differently from when John has nightmares, as well. He usually likes to sit down and talk about his dreams, and drink a cup of tea. You were acutely agitated and barely coherent, with no real way to calm you down. I was quite fatigued by the time I got to sleep."

"Sorry, _what?_" I finally managed. He turned and appraised me coolly.

"You had some sort of nightmare last night." He frowned. "You don't remember." It wasn't a question, but an observation.

"Oh, god," I moaned softly, sitting in a chair and covering my face. I'd had a night terror. Of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid… I hoped I hadn't said anything awful, but he wasn't reacting as if he'd found anything terrible out.

"Does this happen often? I didn't think you had any history of abuse or harassment, nothing that would cause such dramatic nightmares," he mused. "Did I miss something? That happens occasionally."

"No! I wasn't abused or anything weird like that. I… I have night terrors. I've had them since I was a little girl. Never really grew out of them. I should've known. Stressful day, and I went to sleep with socks, probably overheated. I'm… really sorry. And I don't remember- I never remember." I was a bit peeved- I hadn't had one in a while.

He nodded knowingly. "I researched it this morning before you woke, but wasn't certain it was correct, because most data suggested it was extremely rare in adults. I found slight irony that you maintain that childish habit along with so many others."

"It is rare in adults," I said miserably, feeling a sting from his words. "You…. you said you 'stayed'," I added hesitantly.

"Yes, when I got you back into bed you didn't want to be alone. Don't worry, I stayed out of your personal space- John's told me about people's 'bubble'- and slept on top of the sheet, and you slept under it. I may have touched you with my wings, but that was unavoidable. They're simply too large."

"I… ahh," I managed. I put my head down on the table.

"Do you have them often- these night terrors?" he asked, sliding a plate in front of me. I opened one eye to look at it- eggs, bacon, and toast with jam. Delicious. Too bad I felt sick.

"No. Only two or three times a year, after a really exhausting day, and if I have too many blankets and get too hot in my sleep. I'm… god, I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"Don't be. Eat your breakfast. The blame goes to me, I'm afraid. It's my fault you were stressed- damn wings. Stop fretting about it, that won't make anything any better."

He had a point. And no point in letting a good breakfast go to waste. I sighed, rested my head on one hand, and picked up my fork. It was delicious.

He sat across from me and devoured a small mountain of scrambled eggs and toast. After, he frowned at his empty plate.

"Still hungry?" I asked, nibbling a last piece of bacon.

"No. I'm mourning the loss of my small appetite. Damn wings," he said again, picking up his plate and putting it in the sink. "I have to go out today."

"Oh. For what?" It was a Saturday, so I didn't have work until later. I wondered what he was up to- oh. That. "That lead you were talking about?"

"Yes." My stomach dropped. "You will not accompany me."

"Right," I mumbled. I had a growing suspicion of what this 'lead' was, and a part of me knew it would be a bad idea to go with him.

"I'll return tonight, and give you the news, though I'll probably stay at 221B tonight. John is already suspicious, but I doubt that he'll actually find anything out," he said decisively.

We cleaned up breakfast together, and I was struck by the mundane-ness of the whole situation. Except that his wings kept bumping me and rustling quietly. That detracted from the normalcy a bit.

I showered. When I returned, he was gone, so I left for work. In the cab, I considered sending another text message, but refrained from it. He would want minimal interference. I knew exactly what he wanted. I knew him so damnably well.

Work dragged, of course. I just wanted it to be over quickly so I could find out what happened at the confrontation.

JM JM JM JM JM JM JM JM JM JM JM JM JM JM

Sherlock paced the rooftop. Moriarty had suggested the place, and he hadn't wanted to seem weak and request a different place. Moriarty had something he needed, anyways. Beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Are you afraid of heights, now, after your little whoopsie?" a lilting voice asked. Even though Moriarty fluctuated his tone and pitch and accent every time they met, Sherlock still knew it immediately. "I'm not afraid of guns, oddly enough. They're just as appealing as before. Guess trauma is just one other thing we don't feel. Add it to the list, will you?"

"I do feel."

"Don't be belligerent, Sherley," Moriarty whined. Sherlock turned to face him, standing straight-backed with his hands grasped behind his back in a very formal pose. Moriarty slouched against a vent, ankles crossed, expression playful and deceptively emotional.

Sherlock knew better. Very little, if any at all, emotion worked its way behind those false doe eyes.

"If you really did feel, then you wouldn't be so fun, and so much _stronger_ than all those silly puppets," he continued, gesturing carelessly to the general population around them. "Adler felt. Remember what happened to her? Had to go _crawling_ out of England, and got beheaded." His mouth formed a surprised 'O' and he gasped. "Or… did she!"

"We aren't here to talk about Miss Adler," Sherlock said coldly.

"I'm just making conversation," he said, changing to low and bored. "I know what you're here about. The wings. Can I see them?"

"Did you do this?"

"Ple-ease?"

Sherlock didn't reply, and Moriarty sighed. "I'll look anyways," he said, and pulled out a handful of papers from his pocket. "Pretty… but I can't even see the plumage," he mourned, staring at the x-ray photo he had of the wings.

"You've gotten yourself quite a hacker," Sherlock acknowledged, remembering how thoroughly Molly had erased the evidence of the computers. Moriarty merely grinned.

"Please, pretty please, can I see them? I'll show you mine if you show me yours first," he said, waggling his eyebrows. Sherlock recognized his stubbornness, and knew that to win, he needed to play along a little. So he shrugged his coat off, removed his black outer layer, and rolled his shoulders for a moment, trying to get the tips lined up.

Wish a whoosh, his wings flared behind him, arching over his shoulders and spreading their full wingspan, all white speckled with black. Moriarty let out a low whistle and walked a slow circle around him, and he resisted watching him, staring straight forward. _I do not fear you, I am stronger than you_, the pose said. It was a game they both played effortlessly.

"My, my, not very colorful, are they? Snowy owl-ish, I believe. So fitting. You see in the dark, while everything else sleeps. See, what did you say about not being one of the angels? 'I may be on the side of the angels, blah blah blah, not one of them'," he mimicked in a very low voice. It was a truly pathetic attempt at Sherlock's low timbre. "And look at you. Pretty boy wings. Good boy wings. Angelic boy wings."

"Why do I have wings?" Sherlock asked. Moriarty came back around to face him, and widened his eyes.

"But, Sherlo-ock!" he complained. "I didn't even show you mine!" His own wings extended soundlessly and waved up and down. "Hello!"

Sherlock ran a careless eye over them, walking around him. They were mostly the same as his, in size and shape. However, his were golden-tan on the backs, growing to dark brown at the tips of his flight feathers, and dusted with light brown flecks. The inner side of them was brown at the top, then white, then dark brown at the tips.

"Do you like them? I picked something a bit more conventional for myself. They're common buzzard. Pretty, I thought. Do you know much about birds? Bet you do now," he said with a smirk, fluttering them in a show-offy manner before tucking them against his back again neatly.

"How?"

"A ninja in your window in your sleep. Had to wait for _ever_ for you to actually sleep- what do you think you are, inhuman?" Another smirk. "See, you've been trying to solve the wrong mystery. Ask the wrong questions, and you won't get the answers you really need."

"This isn't a game. Get rid of them."

He shook his head. "No, no, you need them. You've been investigating all wrong, been a step behind. I'll _tell_ you how I did it. A serum I found in the Western United States, where they do all their fun games with chemicals and tests and such. Very thrilling stuff. Do you know, they tested nuclear fallout on their own people in Nevada, without even _telling _them they were guinea pigs? Delightful. Sometimes I wonder if I was supposed to be an American.

"I digress. I'm just so capricious," he said with a grin and an eye-roll. Adorable and sickening. "Anyways, I got a hold of this stuff out there, refined it a bit, and then burned everything they'd done to the ground, with their own super-flammable junk they'd made themselves. Too easy. If you wish to know the technical stuff… well, it's a virus, but instead of inserting its own sick-making DNA into your cells, like virus do, it inserts the bird gene. You get a little sick. Sorry," he shrugged.

"Of course. A virus… and the sickness was expelling any excess shed matter, and my body trying to reject the unknown genes. My bones are thinner, my entire body changed- the pain and sickness came from that. But the mass necessary to grow a pair of wings, the _energy_-!"

"Got that from them friendly Americans too," he said in a passable American accent. "Raw calories and stem cells shot right into your body, fresh out of a dead baby. Better than any coffee you'll ever meet. Or heroin."  
"The injection. There were no needle marks on me-,"

"WRONG! God, are you getting _stupid_? I thought you were mister-deductive-observant big-coat man. You did have needle marks. Between your toes," he said, going from angry to giggling at 'toes'.

"Why give me wings? Why give yourself wings?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes. "I understand giving yourself wings- what fun, being more than human physically, to match your mental prowess. But why me as well? A new game!"

"Ding-ding-ding! Give the bird a prize!" he laughed. "This bird thing opens up so many opportunities for bad jokes, and those are the best kind. Yes, a game! Maybe you're not so _featherbrained_ after all!"

"I don't want to play this game."

"You never want to play games. Have a little- well, not empathy, because you're incapable of that- sympathy? No, no… well, try to put your own concerns aside and play this game with me. You will. You _have to_. I'm even giving you a head start. Because I'm telling you this- you're asking the wrong questions. You have wings! Enjoy them!"

"I don't want them. I'll remove them-,"

"You'd better hope you don't remove them, because then you'll lose for sure. Get it yet? You don't want to _fall_ behind. And that's another hint." He glanced at his watch. "Hmm, sorry darling, but I've got some other things to attend to. Catch you later, babe." He headed for the door. "And give Mols my love, will ya?"

"She thinks you're dead," he replied tonelessly.

"Hmph. Au revoir, Sherley!" The door slammed shut behind him.

**Author's Note:** I just have to give you a little hint. Pay attention to Molly. The little details- something is not as it seems. Every little thing she does (even in the chapters before this one), because something his happening underground in this story, and it won't be revealed for a while, but I'm hoping by then, a few of you will catch the scent.


	6. Gifts' from Mrs Holmes

**Author's Note:** A little bit more Sherlolly in this chapter. I've been meaning to mention this, but keep forgetting to- John isn't in this story much. He will make more of an appearance later, but I write best when I'm not juggling more than three or four characters. Monologues are fine. Dialogues are great too. Triologues (pretend it's a word) are significantly less good.

But John will show up more later. I'm still writing this (though I've got a lot more written- in Word, this chapter ends on page twenty out of the 52 pages I've got written so far. We're in for a long ride, ladies and gents.) so I'm not sure how extensive his role will be, but it won't be as major as Molly's or Sherlock's or Jim's. Those are the three main characters. Sorry, John… I don't hate him (I love him!). I just find these three characters the most fun to write.

Fangfan: Thanks :D

Faeryenchanter: Continue? Uhm… I guess… just for you!

Olivethebreloom: You're not bothering me- I really do appreciate the scientific interest! Sherlock doesn't have a keel- his sternum is just a bit thicker now, built heavier and stronger. He doesn't have much for flight muscles right now (he hasn't actually done any flying, or much of anything with his wings) but he will strengthen them (I'll talk a little more about that in other chapters, don't you worry!). And P.S.- you the same breloom on deviantArt? If so, I absolutely love the Cumbershark. What on earth inspired that!

**Chapter Six**

When I got home, I walked into the kitchen and yelped. Sherlock was sitting at the table, fingers steepled in front of him.

"Pack your things. We're going on a trip. I need to learn how to fly."

"Good afternoon," I said irritably. "What?"

"I met with Moriarty this afternoon." I opened my mouth, not sure what I was going to say, but he continued to speak. "Yes, he's alive. If I survived, then so did he. Obviously. He's behind the wings, and he did it to himself, too- he's got a pair as well, and he's got a new game. And I need to learn how to fly. We're going to my house in Herefordshire for a week, maybe more. Leaving tonight."

"I… what? I can't just… I have work," I said weakly.

"You can take a week off. You don' take enough time off, have almost a month of vacation days built up- you really ought to travel or make some friends or something. The train leaves in an hour and a half- you should probably start packing," he insisted.

"But… you have a house in Herefordshire?" It seemed like a silly question, but I had so many that it was just the first one that made it from my brain to my mouth successfully.

"Well, technically, it's a family cottage. Mycroft maintains it and such, but I have claims to it. It's the only cottage in a four kilometer radius, and all that land is privately owned by the Holmes. It's on the side of a hill, and has equal forested and field land, secluded enough that I can practice."

He was so calm and expectant that there was nothing else to do, really, other than take off my coat and go find my suitcase. He already had a bag packed and ready, so he just hovered impatiently. I didn't like him being in my room, but just before I voiced my opinion, I remembered that he'd already been in, for last night's night terror episode.

"Why do I have to go?" I asked suddenly, stopping packing.

"Because I may need assistance. You are a doctor, and you have some knowledge about birds. Having a doctor is ideal, in the event of any mishaps. I could bring John, but why involve anyone else? You already know, so I don't have to explain, and the less who know, the better. John would also be angry and petulant about leaving his girlfriend, Mary, who is adventurous and unfortunately curious, so if he did leave for a week with a feeble explanation, she may delve deeper. Not that she would actually find anything.

"You used to spend time with your grandmother bird watching, so you know how a bird's wing moves to propel it through the air, and you are familiar with feathers and wings in general, as well as the human body, so you can help if I get injured, which is highly likely. Also, I didn't bring my skull," he listed.

It made sense, but still. "How come you know I _will_ go? I could just say no," I say, testing the waters and folding my arms. I was feeling very proud of how bold I was.

"But you won't." He said it with such complete certainty that I deflated and resumed packing. He didn't even need to explain- we both knew I wouldn't say no.

We departed and barely made the train. I asked Sherlock a few more questions about the meeting- how had Moriarty survived? What game was he playing? Why did he need to learn to fly, and how had he given him wings? He explained what he could in short sentences, shrugging at many of my questions.

He excused himself to visit the lunch cart. I sighed and turned my face toward the window, made the necessary calls to work and to my neighbor, asking her to take care of Toby, then decided to take a nap. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I hastened to take it out.

_Enjoy your week. xx_

I deleted it and went to sleep.

It felt as though I'd been asleep for seconds when I woke up, the sudden absence of motion and the flurry of activity around me pulling me from unconsciousness. Blearily, I collected my bags and followed Sherlock out. He climbed in the driver's seat of a waiting car (it went with the cottage, he told me) and we began the drive. I dozed off again, too tired to take in our surroundings.

"Molly," Sherlock called, waking me again. "We're here." I blinked and looked around to find out where 'here' was.

Paradise. That's where it was.

A neat 'cottage' sat on the side of a hill, with a few pines behind it. It was tucked in the corner of a forest- the back left corner was surrounded by trees, and the rest was rolling green hills. A smooth cobblestone path led into the woods, and the front of the house had flowers and such. It was two stories, brick with ivy climbing up the front, and a drizzle of smoke emerging from the chimney. The shutters were dark green, as was the door. I looked around- the driveway seemed to stretch for miles. I couldn't even see the main road in the distance, or any other buildings for that matter.

"Oh," I sighed, at a loss to say anything more.

"Four bedrooms, three bathrooms upstairs and one downstairs, kitchen, sitting room, a sauna in the basement (furnished), computer room, and a back porch. There's a small pond out back in the courtyard with koi fish in it, and a garden. Everything has been cleaned and the kitchen has been stocked in preparation for our arrival," he listed nonchalantly, getting his bags out of the trunk of the car. I stared for another moment.

"Are you… rich?" I asked. I'd never actually asked him that. He dressed well enough and acted very high class, and yet he shared a flat in order to afford it, and he didn't get paid for his work (aside from the occasional thank-you check from higher-ups whose cases he solved). But the house, the car, the land…

"Me, no. My family is, though. My father was a prestigious lawyer before his death, and we already had family money before that. The Holmes' family has houses and retreats and land all over the United Kingdom, as well as in mainland Europe and America," he explained, rummaging in his pocket for a key, and finally unlocking the door. I hastened to get my things and follow him inside.

"Oh. Okay. Why don't you live like it, then?" I persisted, removing my shoes and jacket.

"You've met Mycroft. He is exactly like our mother- everything has a price. I had to promise her Easter weekend for her to let me stay here." I had a sudden vision of them in a family portrait- young Sherlock, pale and sullen, almost-adult Mycroft with his nose in the air, both in perfectly pressed khaki slacks and button-ups, and behind them a woman with a business suit and a talon-like hand on each of their shoulders.

The overall effect was icy, and I suddenly felt bad for Sherlock. I hadn't grown up with a lot of money, but we were a very tight-knit family and were happy together, with our without money. Sherlock's family, in contrast, seemed the very archetype of high-class loveless families.

"Don't," he snapped suddenly, as if sensing my pity. I looked at him with wide eyes. "Stairs are this way. I'll show you your room and we can have a late dinner on the veranda, then bed. Tomorrow we'll begin flying," he continued, picking up his heavy case as well as mine with ease. I followed him up the stairs, and he pushed open the door to one of the rooms. "This will be yours. Door on the right is the closet, on the left is your bathroom. I'll see you in the kitchen in twenty minutes." He departed.

I gazed around, wide-eyed. Again. It was a luxurious room, with light moss green walls and a plush looking queen-sized bed with curtains around it, like in the movies. The floor was hardwood, and the wood of the bedposts matched. There was a cozy window seat (the window itself was massive) and a desk at one side. The entire room was tasteful and expensive looking while staying modest and functional.

A week wasn't long enough, I decided, as I fell onto the bed. It was just as soft and thick as it looked. Marvelous.

Eventually, I managed to climb off the bed and begin putting things away. When I got to the closet, I scowled.

It was a walk-in, and was already full with clothes, everything from cocktail dresses to gowns to vintage skinny-jeans to khaki shorts. Shoes lined one row of shelves, and a massive jewelry box (or closet) was beside it. The end was a set of three mirrors. I wondered if someone had already been staying here, until I noticed the size tag for one of the dresses. My size.

Everything in there was my size. Stocked for me.

Without finishing packing, I marched down the room and knocked on Sherlock's door.

"Come in," his quiet voice called. I threw the door open and frowned, but he wasn't there. I looked around with confusion.

"In here," he called again. I followed his voice and found him in the bathroom, washing his face.

"What's with the closet?" I asked angrily. He made a confused face at me as he toweled his face dry. "Don't play stupid- you have a problem with how I dress?" I gestured at myself (I was currently wearing red-and-white striped button-up collared shirt and dark blue slacks, perfectly sensible dress for the weather) with confusion.

"I don't have a _problem_, so to speak. I acknowledge that you dress a bit young for a woman of your age and figure, but I don't let it bother me. Though… show me," he said, tossing the towel down on the sink and following me back to my closet. He poked around for a second, a wry smile creeping up his face.

"What are you grinning about?"

"Well, this was my mother's work. I gather that she, likely with Mycroft's help, found out who I was bringing here and may have researched you. Either she thinks she's doing a good deed and helping you (unlikely) or she doesn't like the way you dress and is giving you a very unsubtle hint," he deduced. My scowl deepened. "They're very nice clothes, though," he added quickly, pulling out a pale blue gauzy sundress with a white sash around the waist. "This would look very nice with your brown hair and eyes. And it would be flattering and feminine on your plain, boyish figure."

I stared at him incredulously. As much as he talked about not caring about his body (his favorite saying "it's just transport") he was awfully fashion-conscious, what with his slim suits, and now helping choose her clothing.

"I can't believe you," I moaned, putting my hands over my eyes.

"Blame that on my mother as well. It's an awful habit she instilled upon me, but it does have its perks. People tend to listen when you look good, or at the least, get out of your way," he reasoned, hanging the dress on the mirror. "You should wear that tomorrow. No point in putting these to waste." And with that, he left me gawking at my own reflection, baffled at what had just happened and with _absolutely no idea_ how to take it. Was he flirting, or was he insulting me, or was he just talking meaninglessly?

It was a familiar argument in my head. I found some space in a few of the drawers to put my things and finished unpacking.

**Author's Note:** It also might be worth mentioning that I'm not from the UK. Or Europe. I'm from the U.S. of A. Greetings from Maine. So all the geography of England I know is from Google Earth... Please correct me if I've screwed anything up


	7. Fleigen

**Author's Note:** Wow, I didn't even realize- it's been four days since I updated this… oops. I thought I'd already updated. My bad… So here's a longish chapter. It's not extraordinarily action-filled, but it's got some… well, read on.

I've already got the next chapter set up and everything. I promise, the next two will be trés exciting. I confess- I'm a bit nervous that some of my plans for this story may upset people, or they won't like it. I almost went back and changed it, but then the whole plot would change. And I told myself to stop worrying about what people think. I write for the audience, sure, but I also write for me, and I can't make everyone happy. I'm bound to piss of some of you, one way or another, so why not go all out?

Anyways… I just hope that, as the story develops, you all will remain understanding and flame-free, and won't curl your noses and stop reading. Keep an open mind, yes?

Thanks to GoldenVine, The Arcticourt Spellwright, and madTARDIStraveller.

To The Arcticourt Spellwright: That's your work? That's pretty excellent- what exactly is it? It sounds pretty cool, if you've got an understanding of biology like this, as well as an understanding of the under-the-rug experimentation by governments, that's some really excellent work. Kind of all my favorite things in one- conspiracy, biology, and some pseudo-pathology. What a mix! In response to the stem cells and calories injected to help wing growth, like I said, we aren't at that level of bioengineering yet. And when we do, granted, it probably will be a lot more complicated than this. I doubt there will ever be such thing as wings-in-a-bottle (syringe) but what the hey, it's writing.

**Chapter Seven**

I found some space in a few of the drawers to put my things and finished unpacking.

I found him making French toast downstairs (it seemed he had a penchant for breakfast foods) in his pajamas and dressing gown. I felt uncomfortable in that way that one gets when they show up somewhere and is outclassed- like one girl at work who wore sweats and a band t-shirt to work every day, but still looked stunning, leaving me feeling fake and like I was obviously trying too hard.

"I do rather enjoy breakfast foods. Usually that's the only meal I eat in a day. Not anymore, though," he said grumpily, as if reading my thoughts (another familiar thing). "They're quick to prepare and easy to cook, as well as nutritional, if you do it right. You can start cutting up the strawberries."

I wordlessly went over to the fridge and found a carton of strawberries, washed them, and found a small knife. I hulled the tops into the trash, not using a cutting board but slicing against my thumb, the way my mother had taught me, pushing the knife through the strawberry until it was fully through and pressed harmlessly against my thumb. I knew that if I slid it forward or back I would hurt myself, but I knew better than that.

"It seems that your job from now on will be dicing things. You work well with knives," Sherlock observed absentmindedly.

I didn't say anything, still bristling slightly from the wardrobe issue.

"There's a small glade in the woods that will be a good place to begin learning to fly. We can take a ladder out- I believe it will be easier to fly if I'm already in the air, not trying to get up first. I'll figure out how to do that later. Now, I just need to figure out how to move them properly."

I nodded and continued cutting, then retrieved the syrup and forks. We went out to the verandah to eat.

"I've offended you," he said musingly.

"Yes."

"How?"

I almost choked on my French toast. God, was he oblivious. One would think I would be used to his Aspergers by then. "You… you insulted the way I dress and said I have a boyish figure!" By this point I was less angry (I couldn't hold grudges worth crap) and more hurt.

"Molly, you wear boxy slacks and cardigans that would be better suited for a six-year-old, and your hair is always up in a ponytail. I've only seen you wear it down once. You wonder why you can't find a boyfriend, but with such young dress that's so ill-suited for your shape, it should be obvious."

I could only stare wide-eyed. He rustled his wings and ate more French toast as he continued.

"I would never be able to guess your figure, with such shapeless clothes, except for that one Christmas party where you wore that dress that left little to the imagination. You have small breasts and hips, thin legs and arms and lips, prominent collarbones and very little adipose tissue to add to your shape, and even when you do try to gain weight, it all goes to your stomach. You could take pheromone pills that would help you gain a more womanly figure, but your tasteless clothes and repetitive hairstyle shows that you've all but given up anyways."

This time, there was no John to shout at him and make him apologize. I just stared at my French toast and willed the feelings away. I was getting quite good at it.

"You j-just offended me again," I said in a low voice. He furrowed his brow.

"I'm afraid I don't understand how honesty is at once admired and loathed," he said.

I picked up my plate and went to bed.

Morning came delightfully late. I didn't get up until about ten. Going through the motions, I went to the closet to fetch some clothes and saw the blue dress hanging where Sherlock had put it. I saw my reflection beside it- my bland face and dull brown hair and eyes, common features, nothing exotic, varying from plain on the best of days to unattractive on the worst.

I found a towel and went to shower in my bathroom, hardly noticing the beautiful tile patterns of dark blue and white on the floor and walls. Under the water, I was tempted to cry, but I knew that after crying once, I was weak-willed and susceptible to more crying for days after. Anyways, today was going to be a new day. I would throw myself into this work, like Sherlock always did- maybe that was how he was so unemotional? I hoped it was, because I really didn't want to feel anything.

Today was a day for the anatomy of wings, the physics of flying, the chemistry of energy. Science and experimentation.

When I returned to my closet, clad in just a towel, I faced a problem. Sherlock was right- the dress would look excellent on me. I didn't want to put it on and be his lapdog doll, dressing the way he wanted, but I felt that if I didn't wear it, I would seem juvenile and rebellious.

Contrary to popular belief, I did have a bit of a fighting side, or at least, stubbornness. I wasn't just a mouse all the time- I had a very stubborn habit. So I didn't wear the dress, and instead settled for a sort of a compromise, wearing the clothes that Mrs. Holmes had gotten for me, but not wearing the dress.

I pulled on a pair of 'skinny jeans' (as the label said, but they were the ones on top of the pile so I decided they would work) and a dark blue collared button-up shirt with rolled sleeves. It looked like it could've belonged to a boy, but when I looked in the mirror, I realized that Mrs. Holmes, as tactless as she was, had done a good job matching the wardrobe to my figure.

And just to prove Sherlock wrong from yesterday, I left my hair down. It was a little frizzy and bone-straight, but it seemed acceptable with the outfit. Very little makeup, per usual. Sandals- I wanted to feel grass on my feet, and the rest of my clothes were warm enough.

Right. Presentable, I went downstairs. Sherlock was laying languidly on the couch in the sitting room (another amazing room- it was spacious and open and he had the verandah doors open to let in the warm breeze) with his laptop on his lap. It was open to videos of birds flying in slow motion.

"Different birds fly different ways. I suggest we pick a few to start with," I said, looking over his shoulder. He glanced at me once, then turned around in a double-take.

"You aren't wearing the dress," he commented.

"No. But I'm wearing the clothes your mum got, so it's a compromise. I almost didn't even do that," I retorted quickly.

"Hmm," he hummed, looking me over and making me feel self-conscious. I cleared my throat and took the laptop from him.

"We're going to want to try ones that will match you best. I think we'll want to look at eagles- you're large and have a massive wingspan, or at least, larger than a finch or sparrow. We'll look at owls, and maybe hawks. Things that have big wings and more mass to lift," I said decisively, typing in searches and finding the appropriate videos.

"We can bring the laptop with us to the glade," he said, getting up. We went outside and I breathed the air deeply, savoring the fresh earthiness of it, so different from the tainted London air. I waited in the courtyard with the backpack as he went to the shed to find a ladder. He came back with a tall orange one tucked under his arm, and I couldn't suppress a giggle as I recalled that he would be soon flinging himself off the top of it, trying to fly. He noticed my laughter and frowned with confusion.

"Nothing," I said, shaking my head. "Just- you're going to jump off that and try to fly."

"I don't see the humor," he deadpanned. I laughed again.

"Never mind. My brother jumped off the roof once with a blanket because he thought he could fly. He landed on the wheelbarrow and broke his fibula." I thought for a second. "I guess that wasn't very funny."

"It wasn't. You shouldn't continue to try to make jokes when they so often fall flat."

"Yeah," I sighed. "You aren't going to break your leg, are you? I brought plenty of medical supplies, but I left them back at the cottage."

"I won't. What did you bring for supplies?"

"The usual first aid kit stuff, like antibacterial cream and gauze and bandages, plus moleskin, burn ointment, splints, tourniquets, a finger monitor, butterfly stitches, morphine, collapsible crutches, antibiotics, and a few other things," I listed.

He raised an eyebrow- maybe he thought I'd over packed, and thought he was clumsy. Or maybe he was thinking about the morphine. I decided to keep an eye on it, to make sure none went missing, though I was fairly certain his drug days were behind him. Well… somewhat hopeful. Okay, I had no clue. I was staying at a posh cottage in the middle of nowhere with a possible druggie sociopath with wings.

"Good," he replied.

We walked in silence down the cobblestone path. I looked around, drinking in the fresh outside and reveling in being in the countryside. I did so love it out here, but I loved my job as well, and there was very little need for morgues and autopsies out there. As much as the outside called to me, I knew that I was almost as happy when I was dissecting a body.

"Look," I said, pointing to a tree. A pair of porcupines lumbered beneath it, one of them digging in the ground for grubs, the other sitting contentedly. They looked up at us and froze, and Sherlock froze as well.

"It's okay," I reassured him, walking around them and smiling. I'd grown up in a fairly rural area, so it wasn't a big deal for me. He followed carefully, watching them distrustfully, making a much larger circle around them. They stared at us for another moment before returning to digging.

"I don't like being out of London," Sherlock grumbled. "It's so chaotic and damnably peaceful out here."

"Ha! London is chaotic, if anywhere, and the peace is nice." He scowled, but I ignored it. "I had a dog once that bit a porcupine. That was the first time I ever did anything medical- my dad sat on her and held her mouth open and I cut the tips off the barbs and pulled them out. Poor thing."

"Your pity was limiting to your career- you could've been a doctor or a veterinarian," Sherlock deduced.

"Yeah, but… yeah, okay. I like what I do now, though. I don't like pain, and the way I work, there's none," I said.

"You were bullied as a child, yes?"

"A little, yeah. Well, no. A lot. I got teased a lot, and then started to get beat up. And I hadn't said anything about the teasing, so I figured that telling about the fights shouldn't be told on, anyways. And once a snitch, always a snitch, everyone would remember that I tattled and I wouldn't have any friends at all. Not that I had much for friends, up until fifth year, at least."

"Hmm."

"Were you bullied? I bet you were," I said smartly, trying to be deductive like him. Then I realized what I'd said and blushed. "I mean… I didn't mean…" I huffed and tried again. "You're just that type… smart and quiet, and pale- you were an indoors kid, and rich so everyone was jealous, I bet."

"Thank you for bringing that to light," he said scathingly. I shook my head, frustrated with my inability to say acceptable things.

"I mean… What I mean, is… is people are awful. Not just kids. They want everything, and if someone has something they want or don't have, then they hate you. You had brains and money, so they wanted to compensate, bring you down to their level, so they beat you up. It's okay, I got beat up too, but it wasn't because they were jealous."

"Molly, I'm very comfortable with silence. You don't have to fill every quiet moment with 'chit-chat', especially when your 'chatting' skills are so underdeveloped."

I stared at the path in front of me, forcing myself to enjoy the beauty of the woods, deciding to stop talking. I was supposed to lose myself in science and work. Right.

We got to the glade. It was lovely, as promised. A clear pond that Sherlock promised was perfect for swimming, if I 'took joy in such lunacy'. A little garden, a central courtyard, benches, the works. It wasn't extremely large- if you didn't include the pond, it was only about forty meters diameter. I set the laptop down on a bench, after brushing a few stray leaves off.

"Right, so we'll try the eagle first. See how it keeps its wings flat, like a kite, and most of the movement is in the shoulders and tips of the feathers?" I said, opening up the video. He leaned over to look, taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves while extending his wings through the slits.

"Got it. I'll do a few practice flaps on the ground," he decided, moving a little ways away so I could watch and not get hit. He beat his wings a few times, first clumsily with his lips pressed tightly together in frustration, then more fluid. I chewed on my lip, observing.

"Tilt your wings down a bit, you're- yes, like that. Can you do it any faster?"

"Give me a second," he said through gritted teeth. I watched and nodded as he accelerated his wing beats. "I do feel a bit of upward lift. Maybe enough to try the ladder." He'd set it up while I'd found the videos, and I looked at it untrustingly.

"I don't know…" But he was already headed up, stopping about three quarters of the way up.

"Ready?" he called. "You need to watch carefully and tell me what I need to correct."

"Yes, ready!"

He beat his wings five times, hard, reaching the fastest he could move them, and pushed himself into the air with his legs.

Only to land back on the ground, stumbling slightly but not face-planting.

"Damn!" he shouted, shaking out his wings.

"You weren't going to get it on your first try, anyways. Maybe we should focus on just getting you to stay off the ground before we do any real flight," I suggested tentatively. He nodded and climbed back up the ladder. "Wait!"

"What?" he said irritably.

"How did it… was it natural-feeling to you? It was introduced to your genes, so maybe you have some, I don't know, _bird instincts_, or something like that?"

"It felt… I don't know. Not natural, exactly. It felt a bit normal, ordinary to me, but I had to think about it."

"Hmm," I said, looking back at the computer, then at his wings. "Try again, then."

He did, with the same success, mostly. This time, he seemed to fall slower, and I noticed his feathers at the bottom fanning out and catching the wind.

"Yes! Like that, only more!" I said excitedly. He went up the ladder again and tried as I said. This time, he managed to tilt himself forward, and really did face-plant. I put my hands over my mouth as he sat up and wiped the dirt off his chin.

"I'm fine, don't look at me like that," he scoffed. Then he realized I wasn't in shock or worried. I was laughing. "Your _schadenfreude_ is showing."

"My _what_?" I asked around giggles.

"Your enjoyment of the misery of others," he grumbled, brushing the dirt off himself. "This isn't working."

"No," I agreed, surveying the dust on him and smirking.

**Author's Note: **_Schadenfreude _is a wonderful word, is it not? I don't speak German (sad face) but I've got a close friend who does. Cool guy. Anyways, I'm VERY eager to post the next few chapters… so eager, in fact, that enough reviews may encourage me to post sooner rather than later, hint hint hint.


	8. All it Takes is a Little Push

**Author's Note:** Apparently four reviews is enough to shake my resolve to go slowly…

Thanks to madTARDIStraveller, Fionn Rose, FangFan, and Hellscrimsonangel.

It was pointed out to me (thank you Fionn Rose) that porcupines aren't in Herefordshire… Oops! Sorry guys… my bad! For the sake of continuity, I'm not changing it to hedgehogs (and plus I've never seen a hedgehog) but I apologize. Why can't I be more England-savvy! Someday, I will go there. And I will smuggle porcupines into Herefordshire and introduce them! ;D

Warning: This chapter (and perhaps others after it) contain some foul language and mentions of drug use and mentions of intimacy and cliffhangers.

**Chapter Eight**

"No," I agreed. An idea bubbled up in my mind. "Come here for a second."

"What?" he questioned, approaching. I motioned for him to turn around, and he did. I pulled up the video of the owl again, watched it, and then turned to Sherlock's wings, which were facing me.

Delicately, I put a hand on the top of one, and he stiffened.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Feeling the joints and muscles, trying to get an idea of how they're supposed to move," I explained, feeling my way down the top of his wing, trying to estimate the strength and length of the humerus, radius and ulna, metacarpus, and phalanx. His wing trembled slightly, and I was illogically reminded of the night terror incident. I watched the owl and eagle videos one more time, and nodded.

"You should try the owl form. They beat their wings in a way that would probably work better with the musculature you've got, even though owls are smaller and lighter. Look- they really scoop at the air, more like doing the butterfly in the pool than just flapping. See the elbows?"

"Yes… that makes more sense. I had assumed the eagle would work, with the large wingspan I've got, and the weight I have to carry, because eagles are used to picking up large prey and carrying heavy loads. But maybe because my wings are truly owl wings, that's what they'll work best with." He tried a few test flaps, nearly hitting me before I stepped out of the way.

"Feel more natural?" I asked.

"Actually… yes. Ladder." Up he went again, after barely practicing. I had to admit, the wing beats were smoother than the eagles, and he'd been less clumsy.

He beat his wings, a few more times than he'd done when trying the eagles, and then jumped forward into the air. He didn't quite fly, or hover, even, but he did land very slowly and gracefully, first one foot then the other touching the ground lightly.

"Wow!" I shouted, excited. "You just… wow!"

"Well, these aren't quite the bother I'd thought they would be," he said, the closest that Sherlock Holmes would ever get to saying 'wow'. "Again."

And so he did it. Again. And again. Each time, his descent slowed. We broke for lunch, by which time he could leap from the top of the ladder and take a total of 5.03 seconds to touch the ground. He produced a few sandwiches, apples, crisps, and bottles of water from the backpack, and we sat on the bench closest to the pond and ate with much hunger and excitement.

"Why do you think Moriarty wants you to learn to fly?" I asked, biting into an apple with a satisfying snap.

"He hinted at it. Part of a new game, I assume. Maybe he's going to shove me off another building or something," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "He does seem to enjoy dramatics. It could be a cliff or something. Or some sort of race. It's too early to tell, and he's awfully unpredictable."

I nodded- that he was. Completely chaotic. "Do you think he knows how to fly yet?"

"I'm not certain. He's got a head start on me, but perhaps he didn't use it- he likes the games, and even though he plays dirty, he doesn't necessarily cheat."

"That's true," I agreed.

"What was it like? Dating him?" he asked suddenly, tapping his chin.

"I don't want to talk about that."

"Did you engage in intercourse with him?"

"No!" I all but shouted.

"See, I'm not sure if you're so angry because you _did_, or if you're angry because you're disgusted by the idea, or because you didn't and wanted to."

"Stop it."

"Hmm. So you didn't… so is it revulsion or regret?"

"Fine! I'll talk about it!" I cried. He smiled, having achieved his goal. "It was… nice," I said, face reddening. I really, really, _really _did not want to talk about it. "We watched old fashioned movies and Glee. Went to a really good organic vegan sandwich shop. Spent a Saturday in the country, riding horses." I shook my head. "I should've known he was crazy. He acted gay and innocent, but… I don't know. I should've known. He rode the horse like he had no fears in the world. I thought he was just foolish, but I guess he's just a psychopath," I recalled. I was almost wistful.

"Yes…" he trailed off, lost in thought.

"He wanted to visit me at work, and I'd mentioned you before. He kept talking about meeting my friends, that it was important that we were accepted not only by each other, but by each other's peers. That whole thing." I finished my apple and tossed the core into the woods, where a deer (or the porcupines) would enjoy it. "Can we get back to flying now?"

He grinned, and I recognized it. I'd seen it on a mad man with brown eyes, crouching on a horse's back, bareback and breakneck.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

Moriarty perched on the windowsill like a gargoyle, all grey suit and immobile and winged. He stared down at the people, so far below, victims to gravity and scrabbling in the dirt like bugs.

They were just as squashable, too.

"James, get the hell down!"

Sebastian had lost count of how many times he'd had to tell James to quit being so obvious, whether it was gliding from rooftop to rooftop, wings held stiffly out, or using them as parachutes to drop into alleys and frighten the drug-addled prostitutes, or hang out the window, like he was doing now.

James knew it was precisely fourteen times.

"Why? Nobody looks up, or notices anything. Ever. And if anyone does notice, you can shoot them for me," he said cheerfully. "Poor Seb. You're just as numb as they are. I envy you sometimes."

"Just get down." Much to Sebastian's surprise, he did, stepping elegantly back into the room, tucking his wings in to fit through the window. "Have you packed yet?"

"Yes. Let's go, then," he said, marching out of the room. The sharpshooter grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back.

Moriarty's head snapped around and his eyes met Sebastian's. They weren't honey-syrup anymore, but had golden flares around the pupil, like it was on fire. Another manifestation of the hybridization he'd gone through. It was mostly unnoticeable until he gave you one of his 'looks', whether it was seducing or coy or persuasive or disgusted or angry. At the moment, it was angry.

Sebastian let go of his sleeve quickly. Despite being the larger man, he knew the avian-human had power. Before the wings, it had been the power of persuasion and manipulation and cleverness. Now, he'd added strength to it- the buzzard genes had wove strength into his thin arms and energy into his body, so he could lift heavier things, move more quickly, and sleep little.

Sebastian feared him more than ever. But he still had his duties. "Your wings aren't hidden. You can't go out like that."

James rolled his shoulders, huffed, and retracted his wings under his blazer after a second of struggling. "You're less fun since Friday," he whined, sticking out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. It had been all in fun and games, but Sebastian certainly hadn't had fun, or seen it as a game.

Jim's veins itched as he thought of how he'd spent most of the day sitting on the floor of his room, wearing nothing, curled up in fetal position with his wings wrapped around himself, high out of his mind, proving that the reorganization of his organs had shrunk his liver a bit. Because he'd only taken a little, really.

After the sensation of feathers and the idea of being a proper angel from Eden wore off, he donned clothes and hung out the window, feet hooked over the sill, wished he'd had the patience to go ahead with the mammalian wing research so he could be a bat. Sebastian had to kill four witnesses in the building opposite and demanded a raise. James had demanded an alcoholic beverage with mango in response.

"You almost killed yourself, and four other people died," he grumbled, picking up the suitcases. James smiled winningly and marched out the door again, not carrying a single case, but Seb hadn't expected that anyways. He heaved everything to the elevator, then out to the car.

"I'm so excited, Seb, aren't you? I haven't been to the countryside for a visit in a long time. I go there often, but it isn't the same as going there just to _go there_, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," Sebastian said agreeably, starting the car. He had no idea what Moriarty was talking about, and vaguely wondered if he was high again. "Just… we'll take it slow. You don't have to hang out penthouse windows." Because Moriarty wanted it to be a real game, and he wanted it to be a close game, he'd waited until Sherlock had started until he would try to fly. It would be like a game within the game- who could master it first?

"I do that anyways, even before the wings," he scoffed as Seb pulled away from the curb.

His driver shrugged, and James turned up the radio, resigning both of them to a long drive. He'd rented a house in Herefordshire, within twenty minutes of the Holmes's house. He'd already planned on making at least two late-night visits to his bestie.

Long hours later, they arrived, and again, James left Sebastian to carry everything, all but dancing into the house. "Hello!" he shouted into the empty house. There was no answer, of course, and the criminal grinned widely.

"There's nobody here, Jim, quit being such a child."

"Quit being such an adult," he moaned, climbing the stairs. "I'm off to go throw myself off the roof."

"For god's sakes…" Sebastian groaned, charging up the stairs after him.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

"Moriarty has moved in down the road," Sherlock reported casually, cutting into a steak. He'd decided that flying would be easier with more protein, and had dug a barbeque out of the shed. I almost choked on my water.

"What?"

"Yes. He's made this part a game too, who can learn to fly first, so he's just started today, like me."

"Oh. Well… at least we know London isn't under siege while you're gone," I said jokingly.

"He can control London from any distance. It could be. But he's focused entirely on this right now, so I doubt anything awful is going on there.

"Good."

His phone rang, and he didn't look up from his meal. "You can answer that."

"Sure." I glanced around. "Uhm, where…?"

"Jacket pocket." I sighed- I'd seen him do this to John more than once, but I got up anyways and went through the uncomfortable search of his jacket pocket for his phone. I pressed the answer button and held it up to my ear.

"-the _hell_ do you think you're doing! I've been calling ALL day because you've been gone for two days and two nights, leaving me thinking you're bloody DEAD, _again_, and Lestrade is pissed-,"

"John?" I interrupted hesitantly. He stopped talking immediately.

"…Molly?" he asked, confused.

"Yeah. Sorry, Sherlock made me get his phone."

"Oh, well… sorry about that… could I, er, talk to him?"

"Just a sec." I covered the receiver and looked at Sherlock. "He wants to-,"

"No."

I picked the phone up again. "He doesn't want to." There was a loud, angry sigh from the other side.

"Bloody git. Where are you?" I looked at Sherlock questioningly, and he waved a hand, gesturing for me to tell him whatever I wanted.

"We're in his… cottage thing, in Herefordshire. He's doing, uhm, an experiment. And he wanted my help."

"Oh." I caught the inflection in that one syllable.

"No, not… nothing like that. It's purely scientific," I sighed. "Honestly, this is _Sherlock_."

"True. Sorry. So… how long are you going to be gone for?"

"One week."  
"Okay. Well… have fun, then. Make sure he eats regularly, at least once a day. And he sleeps at least a few hours. Drug him, if you have to. Keep him away from cigarettes, though, if he's doing and experiment, I doubt he'll need them. If he starts wearing just his pajamas until past noon, then make sure there are no weapons in the house."

"I'll be sure his litter box is changed and I walk him twice a day," I added with a laugh. He chuckled.

"Too right. You two have a good week. If anything happens, give me a call, okay?"

"Sure, John. Thanks. Bye." I hung up and put the phone beside Sherlock. "You didn't even tell him you were leaving?"

"Obviously not."

"That's not very nice of you," I scolded, sitting back down. He shrugged carelessly and we returned to our meal.

That night, I put on pajamas and crawled into my bed, enjoying the light silk sheets- perfect for the warm spring days. I didn't go to sleep right away, though, my mind running over plans for the next day, new ideas on how to fly, other kinks and problems we'd have to work out.

Two days passed quickly in a very repetitive pattern. By Wednesday, he could hold his own in the air, not ascending but not descending, either, just hovering. He devoured immense amounts of food and slept a little more than five hours a night, admitting how exhausting the work was. I knew it was a bit like running- you had to work your muscles and get strong first, but he'd done that.

By Thursday night, we both realized that a sort of impasse had formed. He could move up a little in his hovering, but couldn't truly fly. We'd studied birds in the glade, and online, but the week was more than half over and he could still only float (albeit gracefully) in the air, massive wings beating almost lazily.

He tried swooping, diving off the top of the ladder like he was at a pool or something, and held his wings out stiffly, trying to at least glide. He managed a few feet before he tilted his wings up, trying to go upward, accidentally spilled the air from beneath his wings, and landed hard in the dirt. I began taking bandages and alcohol wipes with me, to clean out the scrapes he gathered.

Thursday night, I settled into bed, head full of half-formed ideas, considering each before discarding them with frustration. I had found a little notebook in the study, and it was full of rough sketches of wings, with arrows showing motion, notes on flight feathers, and lists of things to try. I picked it up from my dresser and flipped to a blank page.

I froze, and turned back a page. It didn't have today's notes on it- there was another page with writing on it, writing that was jagged and excited.

_Push him off the ROOF, see how that goes. xx_

I stared at it, mind seeming to short out. Then it really did short out when I heard a familiar laugh, and spun around.

**Author's Note:** Who could it be? Let's list the characters, so you won't forget any. It could be: Lestrade, Mycroft, Moriarty, Mrs. Hudson, John, Irene, Sebastian, Anthea, Anderson, Kitty, or Donovan. Make a guess!


	9. Things Dead and Dying

**Author's Note:** It's okay if you don't like or are disappointed or think I'm taking too many liberties as a writer. I fully accept that this will probably bring a lot of negative comments.

Thanks to Fionn Rose, FangFan, Olivethebreloom, and Confictura.

**Chapter Nine**

_Push him off the ROOF, see how that goes. xx_

I stared at it, mind seeming to short out. Then it really did short out when I heard a familiar laugh, and spun around.

James Moriarty was crouched on my windowsill, the curtains fluttering dramatically around him from the outside breeze. He looked the same as ever- gray, high-class suit, slight goatee stubble, and large, child-like brown eyes.

"You seemed to be a bit stuck. That's my advice. But he can't be expecting it- you have to surprise him. Put those lovely lying skills to work," he purred, nodding toward the notebook. I couldn't see out the window behind him, for two dark shadows. His wings.

He slipped off the windowsill with tiger-like grace, at odds with his avian wings. I wondered if he'd slipped a bit of feline DNA into his injection, then shook my head. Ridiculous. He'd always been that graceful, starting in high school.

"I can't believe he didn't pick up on this. I showed him that I had the x-rays of his wings, even, and he didn't get it. Disappointing me again," he scoffed, making an exaggerated frown.

"You told me not to let him know. Don't be upset that I'm doing my job so well," I retorted, catching my breath from the surprise.

"Only because I taught you everything you know about acting."

"You wish," I laughed, sitting on the bed and patting the spot beside me. He sat, and I looked at his wings, loosely folded. "Buzzard?"

"Just so. _Buteo buteo_. They're everywhere, like me. But travel alone, mostly, and they all have very different plumage. Like me," he declared proudly. I ran a hand over his smooth brown feathers. "I made Seb rub them yesterday- they're a bit sore. He's not a good masseuse, though."

I took the hint and began massaging his wings, starting at the point where they met his shoulders. "Isn't it dangerous for you to come here? What if Sherlock comes in? You know how he is about privacy."

"He won't. And what's life without a little risk, anyways?" he said lazily, head slumping forward as he relaxed. I noticed he didn't have feathers on his neck, like Sherlock did. "Mmm. Feels like the good old days again. Staying up late, talking about people. All that's missing is the schoolwork."

See, I'd deceived Sherlock just a little bit. Jim from IT wasn't a stranger who happened to have a crush on me. In fact, I'd seen him upstairs and had approached _him_ first. We had grown up more or less together, ever since grade five when he'd moved to England. And when he'd trapped and killed a squirrel he'd known I had watched from behind a tree, fascinated. He told me to dissect it, knowing that I loved anatomy and figuring out how living things worked.

Since, then, we'd hardly been apart, until I'd moved to London and got my job. Our correspondence had been sparse, until I'd seen him at Bart's. He told me of his plan, and I asked him to not hurt Sherlock. He'd promised, as long as I played my part well. There wasn't a lot to play, really. Just pretend not to know Jim, and occasionally send him files or let him use my lab.

I'd known he was up to something when he'd asked to borrow my lab a few weeks back, but he wouldn't say, just promised I'd find out soon, knowing how closely I watched Sherlock. It had been an added bonus that I'd gotten so involved.

He'd invited me to his crime ring, but I'd politely refused. We were friends, not cohorts or an evil team of evil, or anything like that. We just went well together- he liked to kill things, and I liked them after they were killed.

"So how are things with mister tall, pale, and snarky?" Jim asked.

"The same as always. Aspergers and science," I said, rolling my eyes.

"So you aren't a couple now?" I shook my head, but my mind snapped back to my kitchen, and him telling me he'd slept beside me. And nothing gets by Jim. He raised an eyebrow.

"No, we really aren't a couple… but the day I found out about his wings, he came and stayed at my apartment because he wanted to stretch them without having to worry about John…" I trailed off uncertainly. Jim turned his head to look at me with one calculating eye.

"Hmm. You don't have that happy glow from sex, you prude. You look like… Oh, you had another night terror. I thought I told you to call me when you got those," he scolded gently.

"And I've told you a million times that I'm not even coherent enough to talk, and I rarely remember them in the morning," I huffed. "You've been around for a few of them."

"Mmm. We'll work on getting your subconscious to realize calling Jim is a good idea," he said decidedly, head slumping forward again as I renewed the vigor on his flight muscles.

"You really want me to push him off a roof?" I asked, changing subjects gracelessly. "You aren't just trying to trick me into killing him?" I'd always had an awful war going on inside me, between my loyalty to Jim and my loyalty to Sherlock.

"No, no, no," he laughed. "I can fly now. I beat him. But he's got you holding him back, no offense."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're making him be careful. Wanna know how I figured out how to fly? I tried what you're doing now- jumping a little ways, watching videos, studying. I realized to try my instincts. Long story short, I ended up taking a tumble from a high place. It was either fly or die, so, ta-daa! I can fly! I'm bird-boy Jim!"

"Just like that?" I teased.

"Yep. Well, I slept for almost fifteen hours, and got nasty sick, first. Threw up all over my nice navy silks," he huffed. "It was awful, Molly, almost so bad it wasn't worth it." I listened interestedly- Sherlock had said little about being sick, being the stoic, untalkative type he was. Jim was chatty- at least, with me. "My whole body hurt, and my wings felt like fire. I couldn't move them, either- it was like trying to figure out how to wiggle your ears, searching for the right muscles. I kept banging them on things, and they would move unexpectedly, and it hurt.

"And my insides- it was like nothing I'd ever felt before, and I've been in some awful torture." His eyes misted over and I could feel his wings quivering. "I could feel my heart grow and my stomach shrink. I shot up enough morphine to knock out a horse, but it didn't help. I thought I was going to die, but it faded after a few hours, and then I was stronger than ever."

"Would you choose it again, if you could go back?" I asked. Part of me was rolling this information over in my head. Sherlock hadn't said anything about such pain. He'd withheld that information, thought I wasn't surprised. Always the silent sufferer.

"Of course! I have _wings. _I can _fly_. And I could do it before Sherlock could," he said with a smirk, the glazed look vanishing, replaced with his usual manic-cheerful face.

"We'll get it by tomorrow," I huffed. "How's Seb doing with it?" I'd met Sebastian a few times, spending time together especially in the rough few months when both Sherlock and Moriarty were pretending to be dead.

"He said if I didn't stop dive-bombing him, he would start shooting at me with his fancy guns. Spoilsport. You know, though, there is one thing that dear ol' Sherley has done before me- hover. I can't get that, I've got to be in motion. Gimmie a hint?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

"No way. Your rules- you said no cheating."

"Dumb rules. Override. Tell me?" he said sweetly, turning and ending his massage to cup my chin. I smiled and pecked him on the nose.

"Nope."

"I'll have your mother killed," he said, trying to bribe me. I laughed.

"And then you would never have any more of her oatmeal cookies. You wouldn't."

"Mmm, good point, darling."

"Your eyes," I said suddenly, looking closely at them. I could feel his breath on my upper lip as I scrutinized his irises. It was minty, like the gum he was currently noshing on. "They're different."

"Yeah, little unexpected side effect. You like?"

I hesitated, then answered honestly. "Yes."

He laughed and leaned forward to press our foreheads together in an endearingly childlike move. "Good. They're very subtle- I do so enjoy them. They terrify Sebastian."

"Has it occurred to you that Sebastian might just be scared of _you_?"

"Really? Why?" he said, mock-perplexed.

"Not many people appreciate your madness like I do."

"You do seem to have a thing for crazy people," he said affectionately. He glanced at the wall clock. "Sherlock's going to come in two minutes. Think I should go?"

I gasped and pushed him off the bed, giggling. "Yes, go, get out of here!" I shout-whispered. He giggled as well and leapt up on the sill, tucking his wings to get through. At the last moment, he spun around like a cat and pressed a loud kiss to my forehead. Then he jumped out my second-story window. I hung out it, watching him swoop awfully close to the ground before tilting his wings and shooting back upwards. I studied the way his wings cupped and pushed the air until he was out of sight.

Back to Sherlock. I left the window open, shook the curtains a little, checked the floor for any miniscule signs of debris Jim might have left, and ruffled the sheets so the prints of where we sat were gone. When I shook the duvet, something small and chocolate brown fluttered into the air. I struggled to catch it for a second as it evaded my swipes (making me feel foolish) but managed to grab it.

A tiny brown curl of a feather. If it was anyone other than Jim, I would've suspected it was an accident. I smiled at it and tucked it into my pillowcase.

I hadn't told Jim that there was already one of Sherlock's black feathers in there, too.

**Author's Note:** I'm scared…


	10. His Second Fall

**Author's Note:** I skipped some things from last time-

To Olivethebreloom: In my head, I do imagine them to be male wings- not entirely white, like some males, but slightly dappled near the tips. But definitely not completely white. If I'd wanted his to be totally white, I would've done swan or something…

To Confictura: Cool drawing! I've always mourned my lack of drawing skill- I wish I could draw like that! (If anyone would like to see, check out Confictura's review, where there is a link to the drawing.)

Thanks to Fionn Rose, FangFan, Olivethebreloom, Confictura, Everlasting Dawn of Eternity, and madTARDIStraveller.

I'm glad that everyone was okay with Molly being pals with Jim. Just to clarify, they aren't dating, and Molly isn't really working for him. They're just close childhood friends- she wouldn't commit crimes for him or anything, but she would just do what one good friend would do for another. Good ol' Jim… He's so evil, but so awe-some… I was half tempted to make it be someone totally unexpected like Anderson, but I can't build off that. Jim is so complex, so capricious, he's so difficult and enjoyable to write for.

(And, on a slightly random note, has anyone seen anything else that Andrew Scott has been in? I've seen bits of Lennon Naked on youtube, and the trailer for Chasing Cotards, and this one short film called Silent Things. Silent Things is… amazing, I recommend it. Anybody have any other recommendations?)

**Chapter Ten**

A tiny brown curl of a feather. If it was anyone other than Jim, I would've suspected it was an accident. I smiled at it and tucked it into my pillowcase.

I hadn't told Jim that there was already one of Sherlock's black feathers in there, too.

I ripped the page out of the notebook, careful to get every shred of it out of the binding, crumpled it, and went to the bathroom and flushed it. I washed all traces of Jim's feather dust from my hands. The whole process reminded me of after an autopsy- put everything back where it goes, clean up, very methodical and careful.

I was just climbing back into bed when there was a tap on my door.

"Come in," I called, pulling the sheets up. I knew Sherlock had seen me in just my pajamas (the night terror incident, when he'd slept beside me, and me in nothing but my undergarments and a big shirt) but that didn't mean I was comfortable with actually letting him- the first time had been accidental.

He came in slowly, dressed in his own pajamas. I was struck by how odd it looked, to see him in plain clothes. I was used to his normal suits. There were cuts in the back of nearly all his clothes now, so his wings hung behind him. I'd finally stopped gawking at them, and was almost used to seeing them.

"Any ideas on how to progress further?" he asked me, sitting at the chair at my desk.

"A few, but they're still in their embryonic stages," I confessed, not mentioning that one had been given to me by his arch-enemy and my oldest friend.

"Hmm," he sighed, steepling his hands. "Moriarty has already learned to fly, I imagine."

I never liked talking about Jim with Sherlock. I was always paranoid that I would let something slip that I shouldn't know. I'd voiced my worry to Jim once, but he'd laughed and said he had faith in my deception skills.

"Why do you think that?"

"Because he's reckless and seemed almost able to fly even before he had wings. And he's known about this, so he may have done research before we did." He furrowed his brow at me for a second, eyes fixed on my neck.

I froze, feeling a bit like a deer in headlights. Just before the vehicle strikes. "Your pulse is racing. I can see it from here." Damn owl eyes.

"I don't like to talk about Jim." I walked over to the window. I heard Sherlock lightly pad over to stand beside me, and he leaned out slightly to study the moon, hands behind his back.

"Did he really-," he began, but before I lost my courage, I gave him a mighty push. He wobbled for a second, eyes wide, almost caught himself-

And then fell out the window. _C'mon, fly, fly, fly!_ I thought as he raced toward the ground, wings fluttering like torn sails. _Ohgod, he isn't going to make it._

And then… he did.

His wings had been spread, but suddenly they stiffened. I could almost see the power ripple through them. His flight feathers made a subtle adjustment, his elbow-joints bent fluidly, and then he caught the air and went _up_.

A graceful swoop, and he was shooting back into the air, away from the ground. I heard him let out a loud laugh of surprise and delight, and I couldn't help but laugh as well in relief. I vowed to text Jim later and thank him.

He beat his wings, and I saw the difference between what we'd been trying and what he was doing now. It was so much more confident, the whole structure of his wings moving in synch, as well as differences in where he moved. His countless useless attempts had been just his wings moving, but now I could see that he drew power from his pectoral muscles, his back muscles, and even a little bit from his neck.

He dipped one wingtip and tried to bank a turn. He managed to reverse direction, appearing to spin on that one wingtip, but he lost a lot of height in the motion (add 'practice turns' to the to-do list) and had to flap again to get back in the air.

A few more wingbeats, and he was running to a stop on the back lawn, still laughing even as he almost face-planted. I ran downstairs and out the verandah to greet him.

"You did it!" I shouted with joy, pointing out the obvious in my excitement.

"Yes! Yes!" he shouted back, catching me as I ran to him and spinning me around. "I can FLY!" I loved it when he was this excited- he was like a child. I only saw it when there were new cases or especially grotesque corpses, something we both delighted over.

"I can't believe you did it! Wow, we'd been all wrong… you're moving so differently in the air. It's… wow! This is great!"

"Yes, I-," he paused suddenly, putting me down and sobering up. "You _pushed me_ out a _window. Head-first._"

I scratched the back of my neck uncomfortably. "Well, yeah… b-but it worked, didn't it? And it's not like it's the first time you've plunged face-first from high altitudes." My own brashness seemed to surprise both of us. Jim was rubbing off on me, it would seem.

"Hmm. I suppose it did work. I do hope you had planned it to go this way."

"I did, really," I promised. "I was thinking about your instincts, and that we were trying too hard, and because it was genetically implanted into you, then there must be a bit of birdness in your brain, since it had manifested in practically everything else."

"Well. Good work!" He let out another laugh. I loved seeing him like this, and _sharing_ it. Usually John was the only one who shared such joyful moments with him.

"Your turning needs a little work," I pointed out with a grin. "And your landing. I didn't think you were going to keep your feet."

"And I need to figure out how to fly from the ground, not plunging head-first off high places."

"Very true. You've got it now, then? I won't need to push you out every time you need to fly?"

"No, I've got it," he said. "Watch." He grabbed the ladder, which was leaned against the side of the shed, stood it up, and climbed it quickly. He beat his wings twice, jumped off, and pushed into the sky again, every motion illuminated by the fat gibbous moon.

"Try turning!" I shouted up to him. He apparently heard me, and this time, he banked slightly, aiming upward, before dipping one wing slightly. He lost height again, but not so much. He did it again, but managed to flap twice during the turn. It was enough to keep him at about the same altitude.

I marveled at the difference between his flight and Jim's. Sherlock glided more, getting speed and amplitude quickly and then just swooping. He was also a very silent flier, while Jim's flight was a bit noisier. Jim had been all full of dives and turns and flapping, and in contrast, Sherlock flapped little, preferring to glide and change direction or motion slowly. I wondered if it was their preference or their wing's preference.

Again, Sherlock landed. He banked just before hitting the ground, beating his wings forward to negate his momentum, and landed a bit more gracefully. I doubted that he could land on a windowsill yet, but I knew he could eventually.

Rather than go back to bed, we decided hot chocolate and discussions were in order. I had him explain the sensation of air in his wings a few times, and he asked me to explain what his wingbeats looked like now in comparison to the glade experiments.

"Even your feathers seem to move now," I said, gazing again at their feathery shapes behind him. "Was it exhausting?"

"Not particularly, no, but I flexed them back and up more than I've ever done before, which was novel and a bit tiring. And I used my chest muscles, rather than just my wings, and a few other muscles that are fairly unused."

"You'll be sore in the morning," I predicted. He smiled and took a sip of his chocolate.

"Worth it."

The next morning, I decided it wasn't exactly worth it when he walked around with a pained expression, being grumpy. I had to confiscate the advil (I found him in the kitchen eating them like jelly beans) and hide my first aid kit. He wanted to go fly again (under the argument that the morphine I'd brought might as well be put to good use) but I made him lay on his stomach on the couch with ice packs on the place where his wings jointed to his back, the area that was sore.

I rubbed his wings as well (by this point I almost wanted to ice my thumbs as well, from giving so many massages). The only way I could convince him to stay still was to promise we would go fly at the glade later.

Later came sooner than I'd thought, but it was so hot out (a very summery spring day) that I couldn't help but enjoy it. I was in such high spirits, what with the sun shining and the birds singing and the summer-like weather, that I even wore the blue dress he'd hung. It was short and sleeveless, so perfect for the heat.

When I went downstairs, he didn't choke on his drink or gasp, but he did give me a long, lingering glance that I didn't miss. His only comment was a cocky 'I-told-you-so', but coming from Sherlock Holmes, it was practically a compliment, and I blushed like he'd just called me ravishing or something. I packed us some cold sandwiches and lots of water while he rummaged around upstairs, packing his own bag.

The walk to the glade left us both walking barefoot. He hadn't even brought his sports jacket, wearing just a white button-up and khaki shorts, still managing to look oxford and well-dressed.

"I can't believe it's this hot already," I said, not quite complaining, but trying to make casual conversation, as I did when I was nervous. He had the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and his hair was curlier than ever in the humidity. Hence my discomfort.

"Mmm. Mycroft and I had a nanny who made the most fantastic strawberry lemonade on days like this. Mother said it was too sugary and told her to stop, but she snuck it in our basket anyways. She got fired quickly," he said, voice almost wistful.

We passed the point where we'd seen the porcupines on the first day, and I looked into the woods and could see them, a ways off, basking in a spot of sun. We'd seen them fairly regularly. I'd taken to calling them Edgar and Maggie, much to Sherlock's amusement and puzzlement.

"Oh. I'm sorry," I said. He'd mentioned little snippets of his childhood a lot during our stay, and I carefully stored each in my memory. "You had nannies?"

"Yes. None for long, though. None of them lived up to Mother's expectations."

"Your mother sounds like a hard person to please."

"Mycroft takes after her." We snickered for a moment. "Poncy git."

"He is a proud creature, isn't he," I laughed. "Can you imagine what he would say if he found out you've got wings?"

"He would think it unsanitary and refer me to a veterinarian," he said wryly.

"He might ask you to carry messages across the city, tied to your foot."

"Or pluck a few of my feathers for a ridiculous, posh quill."

"He would purposely feed you poultry so he could call you a cannibal."

"And he would ask me to sing at the Diogenes club."

I couldn't keep it in- I laughed hard. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and chuckled along. My heart seemed to palpitate.

Night visits from Jim and afternoons full of good-spirited Sherlock. A girl could get used to this.


	11. Swimsuits and Crashes

**Author's Note:** Hey guys! Sorry about the long wait- final exams were this week. I didn't get more than five hours of sleep each night, and was so busy and overworked that I literally forgot meals and bedtimes. Not good… But they're over now, and I can continue this!

Thanks to Vitawash and Hellscrimsonangel!

**Chapter Eleven**

"So what've you got in that backpack?"

"Swimsuits. I took the liberty of finding one for you, too."

I stumbled on a stone and had to jog a step to catch back up.

"What?"

"The volume at which I spoke was enough-,"

"No, I mean… we're going swimming?"

"I am. I wasn't sure if you were going to. I thought it would be fun to practice flying above the pond, and it would cool me off well so that I could fly more without suffering heat exhaustion."

"But I… W-Why didn't you tell me before, so I could change into it? Where am I supposed to put it on- out here?"

"The dress looks nice on you." I blushed, flattered, but it only lasted for a second, because he added, "And you rarely dress well, I thought to not spoil it- you look almost pretty. If it makes you more comfortable, you can change in the trees and I'll turn around and cover my eyes. John feels the same about privacy."

"I'm fairly certain just about _everybody_ feels that way," I huffed.

"So you're saying I'm abnormal?"

"N-no, I… well, yes, but- no, I…" I sighed and looked at the grass at the side of the path, giving up. I could practically feel him give me that one-eyebrow-up look.

"You don't have to go swimming, anyways. You can just sweat in the sun, if you wish. I'm going to change, though."

"Why didn't you just change at the house?"

"I was already dressed in this. And I wanted dry clothes to put on after." We got to the glade and put our backpacks on one of the benches. He immediately began unbuttoning his shirt. I turned away, face red _again_, and found the swimsuit he'd brought me in the backpack.

"I'm going over here to change," I warned him, still not looking back, and went into the woods. I went about twenty meters in, and found a thick tree and a cluster of bushes that made me feel slightly less exposed. I looked at the swimsuit- simple enough bikini, plain emerald green. The top was halter, and overall, it wasn't so bad. Not overly exposing. I gingerly untied my dress and pulled it off, draping it gently over a branch, and put the swimsuit on.

I hoped Jim wasn't in the woods, watching me, though he doubtless was. But then, we'd grown up together. He was like a brother. We'd seen each other naked before, but that didn't mean I was exactly comfortable with it. I knew he wasn't watching Sherlock undress- despite the whispers and rumors, his sexual preference was women.

I made my way back to the glade, holding the dress folded in front of myself like a shield. I wondered if Sherlock was punishing me for not letting him have the morphine. It would be childish and immature, exactly his style.

He wasn't in the glade, and I looked around for a moment, scanning the area. I didn't see Sherlock. I did, however, see Jim crouched on a tree branch, wearing golf shorts and a green shirt, grinning like a cat. So he had been watching me! I smiled and laughed silently as he turned and spread his wings, quickly vanishing.

I heard a shout and looked up. Just in time to see Sherlock do a perfect swan dive (wings and all) into the little pond. From about twenty feet in the air. Giggles were inevitable as I set the dress on the bench and ran over to the edge of the water. His head popped up and he swam over to me, climbing out.

He shook his head, splattering me with water from his hair, and I yelped from the cold. Then he shook his wings too, and I was almost as drenched as he was.

"Running takeoffs aren't a problem," he informed me.

"I guessed as much. Any stiffness or soreness?"

"A little, but it went away quickly. The water is a bit chilly, but nice." He ran hard for a few meters, pumping his wings, and jumped into the air, getting enough altitude to clear the trees before he got to the edge of the glade. I watched, feeling a mix of envy and adoration. It was literally a dream come true- angelic Sherlock, shirtless and covered with water.

I chased the thought from my mind and decided to test the water of the pond. It was obviously man-made, because the bottom was very pebbly and not mucky at all, and it sloped down at a regular angle. It was fairly chilly, but I dove under quickly, which got the worst of the cold part over with quickly.

When I reemerged, gasping from the cold, I pushed my hair out of my face and half-floated, half-tread water, watching Sherlock practice his turns and swoops in the air. Evidently, the water didn't hinder his flying at all, which didn't surprise me- the natural oils gave feathers an almost waxy texture, which shed water readily.

His turning was still fairly shoddy, and he swooped low over the pond, trying to bank corners more gracefully. He plunged into the pond twice, on accident, when he turned and lost the upward lift.

"How's the air today?" I asked.

"Excellent," he said, breathing hard as we swam to the shore. He'd just plummeted down, but on purpose that time. "I'm working on using thermals for lift. The humidity and heat is making me tire more quickly, though. And I need to practice turning more."

"And landing," I suggested, smirking. He frowned, and I saw the look in his eyes- challenge. He ran a few steps, took off, and then swooped back (another wobbly turn) before heading toward me. I knew what he was going to do- show off his perfect landing.

It didn't quite go that way.

He turned his wings and flapped twice forward, to kill his momentum, but he underestimated his speed, or underestimated his stopping ability, because he kept moving forward, albeit at a slower pace, which was lucky.

Lucky, because the only thing left to stop him was me, and he'd planned the landing to be right in front of me, in a very show-offy manner. I only had time to squeak in fear before he crashed into me, knocking me flat on my back.

It wasn't exactly like in the movies, when boy falls on girl, or vice versa, because in the movies, usually the two aren't soaking wet from swimming in a pond, and usually the girl lands on the guy because she's lighter. It also doesn't show that whoever hits the ground almost certainly gets the wind knocked out of them, and it doesn't show the pair knocking foreheads painfully.

I managed to suck in air finally as he groaned, rubbing his head. And then it was a bit like the movies, except he was crushing me a little. I blinked up at him, still slightly stunned, and he finally managed to extract his limbs from mine and get up. He held out a hand and helped me up.

Over his shoulder, I saw a pair of brown eyes, pupils ringed with gold, shining darkly in the woods. I wasn't sure what I saw in them, but I almost shuddered.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked. I rubbed my head and coughed.

"Y-yeah, fine," I said weakly. "You?"

"Yes. You don't have much adipose to create a soft landing, but your boniness didn't hurt much. Less than the ground would've, I imagine."

I frowned and continued on my way to the backpacks. Jim was nowhere to be found.

"I was right. You need to work on your landings."

"No, I simply overblustered a little bit."

"Is overblustered a word?" I mused, pulling out sandwiches and sitting on the bench, handing him his.

"It- yes. But I wasn't wrong."

"Yeah, you were."

"Hmph. No."

I decided to let it go and eat my sandwich. He followed my lead, and it was blissfully silent for a few moments.

"Do you think Moriarty is watching us?" he asked.

I knew better than to do a bold-faced lie to Sherlock, especially when I was still a bit shaken from the crash. So far, I'd managed to avoid telling complete and total lies to him. I was good at acting and withholding information, but that was it. Anyways, I didn't see that the truth could do any harm. I knew Jim well enough that I could all but hear him in my head, telling me to go ahead.

"I… yes. I've seen him twice," I confessed.

"Does that frighten you?"

"Well… I'm not scared for me. I'm scared for you, because he never really did anything awful to me. He's just done terrible things to you. I mean, god, he blew up an old lady that you were talking on the phone to," I said with a shudder. Jim and I had quite a row after that day, but his bambi eyes, my inability to hold a grudge, and the fact that we were each other's only best friends kept us together. He'd apologized (I was probably the only one in the world who he would apologize to) and I'd forgiven him.

"I'm too much fun for him to kill," he said lazily. He lay back in the grass and tucked an arm behind his head to watch the clouds meditatively.

"But… he already tried to kill you!" I exclaimed. A part of my brain began assembling the proper responses for his responses, running ahead in the conversation, making my deception into science and calculating results.

"He also 'killed' himself. It was just a challenge, again, a game within a game- killing me, and trying to get me to find out how to undo the havoc he'd wreaked. I wasn't absolutely certain it was another game until he 'killed himself'. He may be a psychopath, but that doesn't mean he doesn't take pleasure in life."

The answer _I_ knew was _you're absolutely right, he does love living._ But instead, I said the answer Sherlock expected from me. "But… he's insane! He doesn't think like normal people-,"

"-you're exactly right, but his thinking is…" he huffed with frustration, struggling for the correct words, "different, but it's not exactly addled. No, no, it _is_ addled, but it's not… he enjoys thinking, and thinking is something that is done when one is alive, so if he takes away being alive, then he takes away his thinking… That's not the right way to describe it. But he wouldn't actually kill himself. He's having too much fun in this life," he summarized.

"And you _know_ this?"

A small smile touched his lips. "Yes. We are alike in many ways. He says that I am him."

I blinked like I didn't know that. "He… hmm. Weird. But you don't go blow people up for fun, or poison children, or commit crimes."

"Correct." He stood as I finished my sandwich, and dug through his backpack. When he found what he was looking for and pulled it out, I flinched involuntarily, because my first thought was a gun. My second thought was a blowdryer. My third thought was mostly confusion.

"What is that?" I asked, looking at the gray device he held.

"Radar detector. I, ahem, 'acquired' it from Sally Donovan a while ago. Thought it might be a fun toy, and it's finally got a use." He handed to me, and I held it the way he did, like a gun, finger on the trigger. "I want you to measure my speed. This is still all an experiment."

"Oh. Okay," I said.

"How's your aim?" I shrugged, a response that could be taken many ways. In truth, I was an excellent shot. Because of my association with him, Jim had taken me to shooting ranges and quite a few fighting 'classes' (where the teachers were obviously not teachers, but assassins who worked for him), despite the fact that our association was unknown to almost everyone, save for Sebastian and my mum.

"You've got steady enough hands in surgery. You'll do fine," he decided.

First we did take-offs, measuring his speed, his wing's speed, and finding the velocities he had to achieve to get off the ground. Then we did landing, finding the maximum speed he could land and keep his feet at. (It was a discouragingly small number, and took many crashes to find. By this point he had more than a few bandages and had donned a shirt merely to protect the skin of his chest.)

Then he had me record flying speeds. The slowest he could go while staying in the air, more wing speeds, and seeing how fast he could fly. I tried to make predictions (silently so he wouldn't laugh at me), trying to figure out if his diving speed would be faster because he had more mass, or slower because he had more surface area than most birds. It wasn't anything near a falcon's speed, but still alarmingly fast- I clocked him at 91 kilometers per hour.

Our tests eventually became just play, though, seeing how fast he could go, and him diving through the air at terrific speeds, making me gasp and him laugh from the rush. At one point, he dove low over my head, almost hitting me, and emitted a strange sound- a sort of whistling screech.

He fluttered his wings and landed, and I gave him an odd look. "What on_ earth_ was that?"

"Owl cry," he said, brow furrowed, looking equally confused. "It just sort of happened."

"Can you do it again?" I asked. He chewed his lip for a moment.

"I don't think so. Maybe." I saw his pale throat tighten, and the same sound came out from behind his bared teeth. "Hmm. Strange."

"Uhm… yeah. Okay," I said faintly, grabbing my notebook to jot it down. He turned and peeled his shirt off, heading for the pond for another dip.

The afternoon was almost gone by then. The sun was setting and it was cooling off. I went into the woods to change back into the dress (extracting a promise from Sherlock to stay turned around with his eyes covered) and found the fairly secure place I'd stopped earlier.

I'd just reached behind me to work on the knot at the top of my halter when the tree above me crackled.

Something dropped out of it and pressed against me. Something soft touched my mouth.

Another mouth. A kiss.


	12. One Door Opens

**Author's Note:** Hey guys! I don't think I have much to say… except I hope everyone saw the 'super moon' last night, pretty cool, it was ultra bright and uber big- spent an hour out taking pictures of it. It was so bright, I didn't even have to use a tripod!

OH! By the way- I had an excellent experience this morning. Sad, though- I was walking, just enjoying the nice day and getting a bit of exercise in, and I found a dead owl! Barred owl, female, couldn't be more than four hours dead, fully grown adult, floating in the brook beside the road. I rescued it so it wouldn't putrefy the whole brook, and after paying my respects to the poor noble thing, I examined the wings closely. It was still in excellent condition- probably died from trauma, as there was no blood and it looked really healthy. It was a pretty cool experience, and it's the first time I've gotten to see owl wings up close. Awesome coincidence, though it's sad that such a majestic thing is dead- I examined it with as much respect as possible, trying to retain its dignity.

Thanks to: Silarial, FangFan, and Confictura! I will get to the game soon- probably two or three chapters left until the real games will begin. Mwa ha ha ha! I am having fun with the laying of plans though- setting up the wings, the science of the wings, Jim and Molly's relationship, Sherlock and Molly's relationship… But don't you worry, the games will begin soon. Very soon.

I'd just reached behind me to work on the knot at the top of my halter when the tree above me crackled. Something dropped out of it and pressed against me. Something soft touched my mouth. Another mouth. A kiss.

Jim was kissing me.

I was too alarmed to react at first. My mind blearily decided that I was glad I hadn't actually removed any of the swimsuit yet. And then it reached the topic of most importance- Jim kissing me. James Moriarty. Childhood friend, consulting criminal, crush's arch-enemy.

We'd kissed before, just little friendly sibling-like pecks on the head or cheek or nose. Once, we'd tried dating but I'd finally asked him if it felt as weird for him as it did for me, and we broke up in mutual agreement.

This wasn't a chaste friendly kiss. His mouth moved hungrily, and my mind suddenly connected to my mouth, and I realized I was kissing him back.

Oh, God.

My hands were already on his chest, so I used them to push him back. He released me easily, not fighting or struggling like I half expected him to.

"J-Jim… what the _hell_…?" I hissed. He grinned crookedly.

"Couldn't resist, my dear," he murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. He'd done it many times before, and it had been a brotherly gesture. It didn't feel that way at all anymore.

And then he was up in the trees and gone. I leaned against the tree for a moment, breath whoosh-whooshing quickly out of my shocked, open mouth. I touched a hand to my lips- they still tingled from the abrupt display of affection. I knew they were bright red. I pulled on my dress over my swimsuit and clumsily changed without exposing anything, glad for the experience I'd gleaned from changing on busses during high school sports.

I returned to the glade after a few long, slow breaths. Sherlock had changed as well and was eating some allsorts. His eyes weren't covered, but he was turned around. That was something, at least. I was too shaken to scold him.

"Everything packed up? Good. Let's go," he said, standing and shouldering his backpack. I put mine on as well and we began walking back. "Did something happen in the forest?"

"What?" I said too quickly. Damn, damn, damn- I couldn't ruin it now.

"You appear either frightened or aroused. Judging from the diameter of your pupils and the hue of your lips, I would say aroused. If you need privacy-,"

"No, no!" I said, shaking my head, catching where he was headed. "I didn't… no."

"Oh. No need to get all upset- it's a biological function."

"Mmm."

He sniffed loudly suddenly. Then sniffed again. I forced my shoulders not to tense.

"You smell unfamiliar."

There was no point in hiding it. And if Jim had wanted me to hide it, he would've given me instructions. I figured he didn't care if I told or not. And Sherlock wouldn't care much, either. He never did.

"Jim was in the woods. He… surprised me. And kissed me," I said wearily, rubbing the space between my eyes. I could feel a headache coming on, and it had really started to get chilly out. My knees shivered.

Sherlock's hands tightened perceptibly on his backpack straps.

"And why didn't you shout, or fight him?"

"I… was surprised. I pushed him off, and he wasn't resisting or anything. He let me push him away, and then he flew off. I would've fought him if he'd fought me, but he just… left," I said, allowing my confusion and concern to bleed into my voice.

He was silent for a long time, and finally, I sighed.

"What are you thinking?" I asked

"I'm trying to figure out Moriarty's game," he said in a rush. "I don't know what he's playing at. He wants me to know how to fly, but it won't just be as simple as racing, because he values mental prowess more than physical skill, and a race or something wouldn't take intelligence at all. I'm trying to figure out what kind of a game would need wings as well as cleverness.

"Also, I'm trying to figure out if he's making another game out of you, by kissing you in the woods. It could be a challenge, to try to get me to fight him for you, some sort of 'love' battle," he scoffed, putting little needles in my heart, "but, again, that is mostly physical, and neither of us have much of a high opinion of sentiment. He could also be giving me a hint, saying he's going to kidnap you or something. Or he could just be trying to confuse and distract me."

"So… what are we going to do?" I asked hesitantly. He paused, thinking.

"We'll stay for the remainder of our planned week. Today is Friday, and we'll be leaving Sunday. I can take care of you for one day. You aren't to go anywhere alone, or go into the woods. If Moriarty was a man capable of real emotion, I would be less concerned, but as he's not, then this is probably part of his plan and I have to combat it by keeping an eye on you."

"Oh-kay," I said faintly, sighing again. Great. I would be baby-sat. That would put a damper on things.

"_What_ is he up to this time?" he mused, face scrunching with thought. "It's unlike him to take such a personal role in the games. I mean, he usually likes playing a part, some sort of role, ever the actor… but this, _this_, is so out of character for him." He blinked and looked appraised me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.

"What?" I asked defensively.

"You dated him. Try to look past his acting for a moment… does he really seem capable of emotion? Could he be honest in this, and not just playing the game?"

"Um, _no,_" I said quickly (too quickly, again, still rattled) and then made up for it quickly, saying, "I just… no, I don't think he is. He was just acting the whole time."

"Hmm." His lack of response made me nervous, which wasn't lost on him. "You're anxious."

"I just got surprised in the woods. I could've been… _naked_," I forced out, face redder than ever, "and a mastermind genius criminal drops out of the sky, _literally, _and kisses me. Sorry that I don't seem exactly relaxed."

"True. What is it like, being so easily surprised and rattled? It must be awful," he decided. I decided not to reply and wrapped my arms around myself to keep warm.

When we got back, I went straight up to my room with the intention of a shower (my hair was a bit of a mess from swimming) and warmer pajamas. Sherlock went to his room to do the same.

I wasn't surprised to open the door and find Jim lying on my bed, ankles crossed, looking serene with his wings spread flat under him. He'd apparently figured out how to comfortably lie on his back. One eye opened as I shut the door carefully behind myself.

"_Some_one had a good afternoon," he said, sing-song.

"Not me," I replied, going to my closet to find some pajamas. He didn't move as I gathered my things for a shower.

"Molly-,"

I stopped and finally turned to look at him. "I'm sorry, but _what _the _hell_ was this afternoon about?"

"You looked sumptuous. I couldn't resist," he replied candidly.

"No. No, that wasn't just for fun," shaking my head wildly. "You _kissed_ me."

"What an astute observation, m'dear."

"Stop that! Just… what… why did you do that!" He blinked and sighed, turning his head away, rolling on to his side, showing me his back. His wings wrapped around himself in a sort of cocoon.

"Forget about it. You're the only one I can trust not to put a knife in my back _and _stand to be around. Hell, I actually enjoy your presence. So I thought… but it doesn't matter. This… _affection_," he said, the word coming out like it was filthy on his tongue, "is obviously not mutual, so just forget about it. Please."

He sounded pitiful, and looked the part. I thought hard. I loved him… but did I really love him in that way? I didn't know. Could I love him and Sherlock at the same time, in the same way?

He was right. Forget about it, for the betterment of our friendship on both sides. I sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, grabbed his shoulder, and rolled him over so he faced me.

"Look, I… I don't want to endanger our friendship. We can go back to the way things were. Have always been," I said. It sounded like an apology, but for what, I wasn't sure. "Friends?"

"Obviously," he snorted, the Jim I knew and loved (but not necessarily _love_ loved) returning. He sat up and folded his legs. "Sherlock learned to fly quickly. Well done."

"It's you I've got to thank. If you hadn't told me to push him out the window, he probably still wouldn't be able to."

"Nyeh. He'd think of a way, I'm sure. Remember in our sixth year in school, when we got on the roof and chased the birds off? We found those nests, and you wanted to fry the eggs and eat them," he laughed. I snickered at my foolishness and thought happily back on those days.

We lay side by side, friends, and spoke of the past, of young adventures and childlike 'quests'. It was wonderful, and I never wanted it to change. Sherlock and I were friends (or as close to friends as one could become with Sherlock) and Jim and I could maintain our relationship as well.

Everything was… perfect.

Until the door crashed open.


	13. Vacation is OVER

**Author's Note:** If you have not seen the Avengers, get off your computer and go see it. Right now. Heaven save Loki, poor guy…

Anyways, thanks to GoldenVine, IamDOctorWholocked, destinae, and LogicandWonderland for the reviews!

It's time for unlucky thirteen… And for those who have asked, the Games will begin not next chapter (I don't think), but the chapter after that. I think.

**Chapter Thirteen**

Everything was… perfect.

Until the door crashed open.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

Sherlock knew something was going on. He wasn't an idiot. True, fear and anxiety weren't well known to him, but he certainly knew enough to know that Molly wasn't shaken in the right way, so to speak. She should've been afraid, but instead, she seemed almost… heartbroken? Was that the right terminology for the emotion she was experiencing? John would know.

Something wasn't as it seemed. And his entire life was devoted to finding out what things were like under the surface, solving curiosities and figuring out _stuff_. Two could play at her game, whatever that happened to be. He could act just as good as anyone else, probably better.

So he was agreeable and exhibited the proper response for his replies, expressing the appropriate concern and planning. All the while, multiple other processes were occurring in his head- making the real plan of action, analyzing her responses, and keeping a check on his.

A peculiar feeling rumbled inside its cage when Molly admitted that Moriarty had snogged her. Like the rest of his emotions, he kept it in a very locked room in his mind palace, dark and far underground. Though he kept them distant, he also monitored them carefully. And something odd was bubbling up down there.

There were more important things to do. He ignored it.

When they arrived back at the house, he and Molly went their separate ways to wash up before dinner. His stomach was rumbling irritatingly, as flying had taken a massive amount of energy, so he grabbed a few granola bars on his way up and ate them quickly and mindlessly. Molly shut her door behind her- he didn't see it, because he was in his room, but he heard it snick shut quietly.

Time to move. He grabbed a glass of water that was on his desk and chucked the water behind him carelessly, keeping the glass. It would dry. He opened his door much more silently (and anyways, her hearing wasn't as good as his, genetically modified as it was, designed to be able to hear mice or whatnot, and be able to hear it over the wind of flying) and moved down the hall with equal noiselessness.

He wanted to be able to hear everything, even with his enhanced ears, so he put the open end of the glass against the door without a sound and pressed his ear to the other side.

What he heard gave him an odd sinking feeling. It was… disappointment? He'd expected better of Doctor Hooper. For his credit, he had checked her history, but it was obvious now that Moriarty (or 'Jim' as she so affectionately called him, disgusting) would've had any connections between himself and Molly wiped.

Disappointed. And there was that critter, in its cage, whipping its tail furiously back and forth. He shut it away and continued to listen, until he deemed nothing else vital would be said, and he'd heard all that was necessary. He put the glass on the hall table and threw the door open with quiet anger.

They lay together on the bed, like children. Or lovers. Hands gently touching, toes touching, curled in a natural position of affection and complete trust. (A part of Sherlock's mind analyzed Moriarty's position on his back, and catalogued it away so he could lie comfortably on his back even with his wings.)

Molly sat bolt upright, a look of raw horror on her face. Moriarty languidly stretched and then sat up as well, smiling coyly, looking unshaken.

"Hello, _Jim_," Sherlock said venomously.

MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH

I almost threw up, right then and there. _That's_ how upset I was.

"Hello, Sherlock. Wondering when you'd join us," Jim said lazily, appearing unruffled (though I could tell, only from years of being around him, that this wasn't part of his plan) and careless.

"Oh, good, so I wasn't interrupting anything? John tells me that privacy, especially during intimacy, is something to be 'respected'," he replied. The false sweetness made me almost sicker.

"No, no, nothing intimate with Molly, dear. She's a special case," he said proudly, stroking my hair. I remained immobile.

"Hmm. She looks a little pale," he observed. "Mols?" His voice mocked Jim's nickname for me. I really didn't feel well.

"She's tough, she'll be-," his voice got all wobbly, and I felt extremely tired. And dizzy. And then nothing.

MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH

"Look what you did!" Moriarty cried out angrily, brushing a bit of hair off Molly's face. He was glad she was already on such a plush bed. "She's _never_ fainted before!"

"What _I_ did? Maybe if you weren't using her like a puppet then she wouldn't be in this situation," Sherlock replied scathingly.

"You're one to talk. I've never hurt this darling in my life, and I've been with her for over fifteen years. Stupid again, Sherlock," he said, shaking his head. "She's smart. And helpful. You think she's been helpful to you before, in the lab and everything- you have no idea. Your little manipulations and jabs and flirts just made her into a mess. She's got so much potential, and _you've_ been in her way, in her head, eating her up like a worm." He began jabbing his finger at him to emphasize his words.

"And," he continued, "you insult her all the time. She's changed. Changed so, so very much, because of _you_. The way her upper lip curls- you think it's a perpetually surprised, scared look? You've almost crushed her spirit, and now… she used to be able to glare. The most wonderful glare. That lip of hers makes it a spectacular thing, but now she just has her eyes wide and scared and ruins it, because you ruined her."

"'With her'? She isn't very loyal, she's had romantic feelings toward me-,"

"Oh, please, enough with the narcissism, I've got enough to go around," Moriarty moaned, rolling his eyes. "Firstly, we aren't 'together', she's just my friend and I'm hers. Practically her only friend. She would count you, but you're so much of a prick to her that I don't think you count."

"Then take her with you. I don't suffer traitors kindly." By this point, all the false friendliness was long gone. Sherlock's voice dripped ice.

"I'm not leaving her with you anymore. For someone so clever, you're… what's the phrase… 'so spectacularly ignorant about some things'. You know, she's got the self-confidence of a goldfish, she has extreme trust issues, and the last time she went out with a man was when she pretended to date me. In fact, the last time she went out with _anyone_, friend or other, was almost four months ago," he detailed manically. "I don't think realize how much you've hurt her. She doesn't even realize how much you've hurt her. She never used to stammer or do that submissive little head-duck that she always does now."

Sherlock was silent, so he continued with abandon, the volume of his voice fluctuating with emotion. "You hurt her so quickly and strongly that I doubt you'd recognize the girl she was a few years ago, before you came into her life. Like a missile. You know, she used to go running outside all the time, and every two months she would take a long weekend in the country to ride horses and look for wildlife at night. She had _spirit_. And you _broke_ her. Normally I commend such heartlessness, but she actually has potential."

"Pack her things. Neither of you will be here in the morning, not in this house or in Herefordshire," Sherlock said curtly. He stepped out and shut the door smartly.

Jim sprang to his feet and found a few suitcases in the closet, and began packing them, his fury visible in the predatory grace of his motions. Every few minutes, whenever he crossed the room, he would run a hand gently over Molly's foot or fluff her pillow. He made a quick call to Sebastian to bring the car around. When he hung up, he pressed his lips to Molly's forehead and squeezed her shoulder in what he supposed was a reassuring way. She didn't react, still fainted.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

Sherlock burst in the door, lugging his case up the stairs loudly. He threw the door to the sitting room open with a bang.

"Honey I'm home," he proclaimed, dropping his things on the carpet to remove his jacket, paying no mind to John's Mary, who'd almost dropped the flute of wine in her hand in surprise. John sighed and paused the movie that was playing.

"I thought you said you weren't coming back until late Sunday," he said irritably.

"What's the problem, were you planning on engaging Mary in coitus on my bed? Too bad she's having her menses right now. I didn't spoil anything, it wasn't going to happen anyways," Sherlock said quickly, voice terribly cheerful. Mary let out an indignant gasp and John rubbed his forehead exhaustedly. "No amount of strong wine is going to change that, nor will the romantic-borderline-erotic movie you've rented or the new cologne you've got." Sherlock winked conspicuously.

"I wasn't-!"

"Yes, yes, you weren't planning on seducing her or initiating it yourself, though you were hoping to get her in the right mood so she would make the first move. What did you do with my skull? I need some intelligent conversation."

John ignored the jabs. "What happened to your weekend?"

"Well, Molly's old friend Jim dropped in on us- literally, I'll tell you more about that later when your lady friend is gone-,"

"That's okay, I should leave you two to have some space. I'll see you tomorrow?" Mary said, standing and giving John a peck. The gesture, though less graceful and different in almost every way, reminded Sherlock of the gentle kiss Moriarty had placed on Molly's forehead as he'd carried her out to his car, personally, not letting Sebastian carry her.

"Mary, it's fine-,"

"I know it's fine," she laughed lightly. "But you've got things to talk over and I know better to get in the way of Sherlock when he's like a hurricane like this. Call me later." She left, even giving Sherlock a small smile. She was the kindest, least stupid girlfriend John had brought home. He still didn't like her.

"Well, thanks," John said bitterly, collecting their wine glasses and bringing them to the kitchen and returning to the sitting room. "What was that about Jim? Jim who?"


	14. Fresh Wings

**Author's Note**: Thanks to IamDoctorWholocked, Larahna Steadyblade, Hellscrimsonangel, and… Hellscrimsonangel! (For reviewing three times :D thanks!)

It's a bit alarming how on-track some of you are with this- I'll just say, some of the predictions are dead-on, and it's crazy how I've already written it and you all are on the same page!

The game is beginning this chapter, though the game won't become clear for a long while. It'll be complex, and great fun for Jim and less so but still fun for Sherlock. The setting will change, and will remain changed for the majority of the story, for multiple reasons- because England is an unfamiliar area for me and is therefore hard to write, because the game requires factors found in the new setting, and having characters with wings in London is very difficult as it is crowded and they have little opportunity to use them while maintaining discretion.

So yep!

**Chapter Fourteen**

"What was that about Jim? Jim who?"

"Good old Jimmy Moriarty, Molly's old mate from school."

"_What?_"

"Yes, he flew in her window and I found them snuggling, reminiscing, both of them all wrapped up in his wings-,"

"His-?"

"And _apparently_ it was his idea for her to shove me out the window, because it would help me better access my instincts and achieve flight-,"

"Now, _just hold on _a _minute_, what the _hell_ are you talking about?" Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and got a bottle of water out of the fridge. John followed, feeling a lot lost.

"I have wings. Courtesy of 'Jim', and the Americans, and a few dead babies." He wriggled his shoulders and released his wings, shook them once, and then let them hang in a relaxed manner down his back.

John grabbed for a chair and managed to get in it before his knees went. He sucked in a few breaths.

"Okay…" he said faintly. "Okay. Right. You… have wings. And, erm, since _when_ have you had wings?"

Sherlock sighed. Explanation were such a bother, but he needed someone who knew. And who was on his side. Molly had most certainly lost that position. He felt a tickling of remorse. Probably because she made excellent coffee.

"I woke up about two weeks ago…"

MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH

The first thing I noticed was that my orientation had changed. My body was lying in a different direction. Second thing I noticed was a low sound grinding at my ears. It was a moan, long and drawn out, exhausted and pitiful sounding.

Oh. That was me. I quickly found the muscles that made it stop, and then went searching for my eyes. There they were. I opened them- and shut them again quickly. God, it was _bright_.

I had passed out. Or fainted, or whatever. That was new. I'd never fainted before. Why on earth had I fainted? I… I… oh…

Jim. Sherlock. I took it as a bad sign that I was in a bed. I groaned again, louder, and turned on my side, curling up.

"Molly! You're waking up. Good, good… You just need to stay relaxed, okay? Just focus on your breathing, and don't tighten up your muscles. It'll be over soon." That was Jim speaking. What-

My body. My body was on fire. I was being torn apart from the inside out, and the outside in- I was being torn, torn, ripped, I was breaking and burning and dying. Oh, God, what was happening- I was going to die. I needed to die, because there was fire and pain and I just couldn't take it. My chest. Going to explode. I couldn't… I just couldn't…

Think. What was going on? My brain refused to respond, it was flooded with fire and pain, every nerve ending in my entire body roaring and screaming.

"Just a few hours, Molls, you can do this. I'm right here."

My body rebelled against my organs, and they fought back viciously. My spine tightened and I uncurled, a high-pitched whine coming out of my throat that turned to ragged coughs. Something propped me up (my back was heavy, something was pulling me down like a backpack) and I retched, keeping my eyes closed, into what sounded like a bin placed in front of me. When that was over, the pain was a little less, but not much. I forced my eyes open as arms eased me back down.

"Why?" I managed to rasp, curling up on myself, feeling like I was imploding.

"Molly, don't be oblivious. Who deserves wings more than you, you lovely thing? And anyways… _you're part of the game now_."

I could hear him chomping on a piece of gum. The sound was familiar and comforting. I focused on that as I rode out the pain. Jim. Jim was with me.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

.oOo.

.oOo.

**THREE MONTHS LATER**

.oOo.

.oOo.

"Sherlock!" John bellowed upon ending the call. He heaved himself to his feet and shouted again. "Sherlock!"

The pale man peered into the sitting room from his position in the kitchen, working on his most recent experiment (the dead flesh's ability to support the growth of various mushrooms).

"What are you shouting about now?" he grumbled, turning back to the toes he had on a dish. Since the events at Herefordshire, Molly hadn't returned to the morgue, and therefore he'd had a much harder time accessing body parts. John fretted about her disappearance, but Sherlock knew she wasn't dead in the same way he knew how Moriarty's mind worked.

"I've got to go, I've really got to go… I've just spoken with Harry, and her girlfriend was just murdered and she was mugged... She's a mess, and if I don't help her, she'll get back into the drink and never come out," he called, already getting on his laptop to find the soonest flight. "She's in America, she's been looking for a new start and things were starting to get okay again, and then this… I'll be gone for a week or so, could you let Bart's know?"

"I think I'll accompany you," Sherlock decided languidly, stretching his legs under the table.

"Yeah, okay. I'm leaving as soon as I can, I'll call a cab while I pack- wait, what?"

"I said I think I'll join you. Where in America?"

"I… you can… fine," John scoffed, heading upstairs to pack. "Let you know on the ride!"

Both of them threw their cases together quickly, and Sherlock put his projects in the freezer.

"Where are you boys headed off to now? Long trip, from the bags," Mrs. Hudson noted as the thundered down the stairs.

"New York," John panted. "Upstate, in the countryside up there."

"New York? Good lord, be careful, won't you? They're tough up there, all them Americans and their gangs," she fretted. "Be careful of the food, too, I've got a friend who's daughter got food poisoning-,"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, we'll be going now!" Sherlock announced, marching out and slamming the door behind them. The cab was already waiting to take them to the airport, and they piled in, John talking on his phone and making arrangements for their departure in London and arrival in New York.

Sherlock listened to the calls quietly, patching together the situation. It seemed bad- Harry hadn't made many friends other than her girlfriend, Lacy, so she didn't have much of anyone to turn to, as people usually did in times of distress. Hence he and John's flight to America. A small town in the northern area of New York, which he knew to be very rural.

He turned over a few ideas in his head. A crime, that was good. John told him that he wasn't very good around mourning people (his exact words were something like 'insensitive asperger priggish git') so he would make minimal contact with Harry. Rather, he would focus on the case. Meet the local force and make use of his collection of forgeries and pickpocketed loot.

Wings- would they give him a problem? He doubted it. The airport security searched for metal. His wings were most definitely organic material only. As long as they didn't decide to pat him down he would be fine. So- appear innocent. He was glad he wasn't wearing his jacket (for now it was late summer) because that would bring suspicion. Or he could just flash one of his badges.

They arrived at the airport with good time, and made their flight minutes before it took off, having to half-jog to the gate. Sherlock hadn't been on a plane since he'd faked his death and ensured his friends' safety. Since attaining his own wings, he hadn't been able to compare the sensations of normal wings to flying artificially. It was uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than he'd ever been on a plane. He'd never had a problem with flying until now, when he could fly easily (practicing at the top of high buildings on foggy days, far up enough that he was just a spot in the sky at best, invisible most of the time) which he found ironic. He found himself gripping the armrests at takeoff, a fact that didn't go unnoticed by his companion.

"I didn't think you had a problem with planes," John mused.

"I didn't think I did either. I presume it's the experience I've got with flying for real that's unsettling me," he said through gritted teeth. John frowned with sympathy.

"I could go ask one of the attendants if they have anything to help you sleep," he suggested, having had to mournfully leave his first aid pack at the flat.

Sherlock nodded jerkily and John departed and returned quickly with a small plastic cup with a pair of pills in the bottom. "One now, and one if you wake up," he said. Sherlock ignored him and downed both, to which John sighed and rolled his eyes. The nurse had offered three, but he'd expected Sherlock to respond this way. Two wouldn't hurt him.

New York. They landed in the city of New York, as it was one of the few flights they could find at such short notice, and planned on renting a car and driving almost five hours to where Harry lived. They managed to get a car (mercifully Sherlock was still too sleepy to be picky) and loaded their things. John drove, as he didn't trust Sherlock to drive in such a drowsy state. Worry about his sister, subdued for so long but now released in a flood, kept him wide awake.

By the time they arrived at the little town that she lived in (it had a grocery store, a small mall, a handful of restaurants and gas stations, a medium sized hospital, a school, a fire station, and only five intersections) Sherlock was awake again, awake enough to grill John about the details of Lacy's murder. John didn't know much.

"She was from Boston, a big city, like Harry was from London, another big city, and they became friends quickly. Lacy was a dental hygienist and got along well with everyone, except a few of the boys in town, who resented her, erm, 'sexual preference'. But all of them were well-to-do gentleman, according to Harry." He gave what he hoped were all the necessary details, knowing about Sherlock's short temper with 'ordinary people'.

"Good. And it's been how long since Lacy was murdered?"

"Almost a day."

"Damn," he scoffed, wrinkling his nose. "The crime scene will be tidied up. Let's hope the force here takes good photographs."

"Mmm."

"Did she say anything else? How she was killed, where?"

"She said they were walking back from the bar, and it was late. They walked down a narrow street and Lacy was grabbed and pulled into an alley. Harry was fairly incoherent from that point on- we'll ask her again, because I couldn't understand most of what she said."

They arrived at Harry's house, on the edge of the residential area of the city, almost in the countryside. A part of Sherlock's mind was entertaining the idea of taking the car out into the hills and going for a fly. He hadn't been flying in the wild since the Herefordshire incident.

John was right about Harry being incoherent. The woman looked awful when she opened the door for them.

She looked much like John, with her wavy brown hair, pulled up into a high ponytail. Her deep-set, round eyes had lines around them (though Sherlock noted that many of them were from crying) and she had the waifish look of someone who depended on chemicals, but her skin was clear and her stance was poised enough that it was obvious she hadn't been dependent in a while. Her hand, serving the dual purpose of holding the door open and holding herself up with the door, lacked the marks from twisting metal beer tops, and her nails were too long to be able to pop the tab on a can.

"John. And Sherlock, right? C'mon in," she said, voice dull and weak. John glanced at her with worry, then at Sherlock, who gave his head a minute shake, telling him that he was sure she hadn't started drinking. They followed her in. The house was fairly large, a combination of Lacy's fairly good income and Harry's money that she had extra (as in money that was usually spent on alcohol) paying for it, and she said she had two guest rooms, which was lucky, as neither wanted to sleep in dead Lacy's room. John thought it would be eerie. Sherlock disliked the lavender walls.

"What happened when Lacy was… stricken?" Sherlock asked delicately when they were unpacked and sitting at the table, having tea. John had kicked him, so he'd kept his language as passive and gentle as possible.


	15. A Murder Most Foul

**Author's Note:** This chapter is a bit dull, but there are some important details woven within. Also, I should mention that I know little to nothing about knife fighting or mugging or crime (thanks to my sleepy Maine upbringing) but I tried to make things seem… logical? I hope it doesn't look all bogus to any of you. This chapter isn't very long, but I screwed up my stopping points in the last few chapters and have to get back on track.

Thanks to: LionessKeeper and IamDoctorWholocked

**Chapter 15**

"What happened when Lacy was… stricken?" Sherlock asked delicately when they were unpacked and sitting at the table, having tea. John had kicked him, so he'd kept his language as passive and gentle as possible.

"We were walking home after a night at the pub. We went by one of the alleyways, and suddenly this figure grabbed Lacy. He said to give him our money. I started to hand over my purse, but Lacy fought- she's always been a fighter, tough till the end." Silent tears dropped down Harry's face, but she maintained composure with force of will. "The man… he had a knife, and he drew it across her throat, grabbed our purses, and took off. I held her hand, even though it was useless… maybe I should've chased him, but I couldn't leave her to die in the street."

"Can you describe the mugger? Tall, short, hair color, eye color-,"

"Yes, sure… but he was wearing all black and a black ski mask, so I couldn't see much. He was… average height for a man, I guess. Almost as tall as Sherlock. He was broader, though. Tough looking. Strong, but not like a bodybuilder. More like an athlete. I don't remember his eyes. It was dark."

"Which hand did he hold the knife in?"

"The… right."

"How clearly do you remember the event?"

Harry's shoulders hunched slightly. "Perfectly."

Sherlock stood and went over to the counter, and pulled a knife out of the block. He handed it to Harry. "I want you to reenact exactly how he moved, as closely as you can."

She nodded grimly and he stepped back. "Okay… So he came out of the alley just like this. He whipped the knife up to her throat, then put his other arm around her middle to restrain her, catching her arms as well." She stepped forward, brought up the knife and held it up to an invisible person's throat and then pulled her arm out in front of her. The tears were running freely now.

"He said, 'Give me your purses, now.' His voice was gravelly and low, but it sounded like he was disguising it. I dropped mine and Lucy started twisting and thrashing, fighting. He… he t-tipped the knife, like th-th-this…" Here she turned the knife so the point was almost facing herself and pulled it through the air in a fluid motion, "And cut her throat. He stepped back and let her fall, then grabbed our things and ran. I don't think he even got a single drop of blood on himself."

She stared at the knife for a second before it fell from her listless fingers. John rushed to comfort her while Sherlock put his hands to his temples and closed his eyes, envisioning the scene.

The robber was obviously an experienced killer. He'd relied on the knife rather than grabbing Lacy, his trust in the sharp metal something that came with practice and experience. So he'd brought up the knife before even grabbing her. And he hadn't hesitated or fought when she struggled. He could've struck her about the head or tightened his grip on her throat, and Harry said he was athletic, so Lacy wouldn't have overpowered him. But he killed her, quickly and efficiently, in one smooth action. All of it pointed toward experience and confidence.

So, most likely a veteran, but trained after his soldiering life ended. Because soldiers usually used guns. It was rare for a soldier to get in a one-on-one knife fight, and yet he'd done it with an ease that came with doing it many times before. Assassin?

The robbery. He took both purses, but didn't take their expensive jewelry or phones or anything else. Nobody carried much for cash around anymore, it was all plastic cards that could be cancelled as soon as they were stolen, so the real value would be in the jewelry that could be pedaled for a high price. Perhaps he hadn't planned on killing Lacy, and then decided to flee. But the confidence and skill of that single slash betrayed his premeditation.

He'd planned on killing Lacy.

Then he knew that she would struggle and give him a reason to kill her. The whole thing was a scene, an act. He'd known all of it, what was going to happen. It had been a scheme.

"Was the murder American?" Sherlock asked suddenly, not opening his eyes or otherwise moving.

"His accent was American. We're in America," Harry huffed. "Why would he be anything else?"

Sherlock ignored her. That didn't mean anything. The assassin (for he clearly wasn't just a robber or even a common murderer) had planned everything else out. He could've practiced those words in the right accent over and over again. Or he could've just been naturally American.

"Where's the station? Where can I get a hold of the evidence and pictures from the scene?" he asked Harry, standing and opening his eyes. He silently cursed the lack of CCTV in America.

She gave him directions, and he left John to take care of her (who was a bit peeved about having to stay behind) and got in the car. The station didn't look very promising, but he was glad it was close to the hospital. He could pop over and use some of their equipment, if he needed.

He tossed the door open and strode in, glancing around casually. Judging from the state of the front desk and the wear on the computer's keyboard, the force was rarely used. He scowled. They would be even worse than the team he usually worked with in London.

He pulled the corners of his mouth up in a passable smile when the secretary looked up, and he flashed his badge. "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'm from the London force. I've taken a bit of personal interest in the case involving Harry Watson and Lacy Michaels. I need to see the photographs and evidence. Who's taken the lead on the case?"

"Nice to meet you, dear," she said warmly. "You're looking for Officer Dave Daniels. I'll grab him for you." She hauled her girth out of her chair and walked through the door. Sherlock quickly peered over the desk at the plan books and computer screen. She was filing a parking ticket. He would have to go through all the files later, though, because she was going to be back in mere seconds. He did, however, see enough to know he was right about the low crime rate.

Sure enough, he leaned back just in time for the secretary and a man whom he assumed was the officer to walk back through the door.

"Dave, this is Mr. Holmes," the secretary said (Colleen, by her name tag) by way of introduction. He noted the informal use of first name for the officer. He also noted the man's haircut (dark brown, about an inch long and fairly untidy), his facial hair (walrus mustache and a little bit of stubble across the rest of his jaw), his eyes (focused, not a multitasker, not terribly judgmental but apprehensive), his stance (good shot but rarely, if ever, shoots at people), and his hands (callused, lined with dark, hands that knew work).

"Sherlock, please," he requested, shaking the extended hand (warm and dry and strong). "I'm looking into the Lacy Michaels case. Her partner is the sister of a close friend of mine."

"Right, good. We could use all the help we can get. We don't usually have this kind of thing happening here. Small town, everybody knows everybody, friendlylike, you know? Everyone's a bit shaked up."

"Shook."

"What?"

"'Shook' up, not 'shaked up'," Sherlock corrected. "Now, if we could see the pictures of the crime scene and any evidence you've found?"

"Right, sure. Follow me," Dave said, and they went into the back room- a large office, with pictures spread over a big table in the middle. "These are the pictures we took. I know England has their street cameras, and some cities here do, but we don't. We don't like feeling like we're watched, right." Sherlock judged his IQ to be below Lestrade's. "Though it would come in good use for a time like this. From what we've seen, it was a hit-and-run robbery, but a few things have made us wonder if that's really the case." Above Anderson's IQ, at least. That was something.

"The man you're looking for is an army veteran, fairly youthful, very fit. After he was done being a soldier, he went into assassin work, hence his continued fitness even after his discharge, and his skillful knife work. It wasn't just a hit and run, it was planned and premeditated," Sherlock said while examining the pictures. Dave's thick brows moved closer together in confusion.

"How do you know that?"

"It's obvious. You've spoken to Miss Watson?"

"Yeah, but…?"

"Apparently you asked the wrong questions. I requested she demonstrate how the attacker moved and the whole event occurred, and was able to deduce, from the way the attacker pinned Lacy with the knife before even restraining her, and from the way he slit her throat, that he is experienced with a knife. So why would someone with such murdering prowess commit a robbery? He wouldn't, because he's above that, as well as he left the jewelry, which was the real value. Then the robbery was a cover-up to kill Lacy. He knew she would react by fighting, so he'd done his research. Well-planned, halfway decently covered up as a robbery, and excellent knife skills- hence, an assassin."

"I… wow, okay… you're sure? Seems like a lot of a stretch," Dave said suspiciously.

"Positive. Has anyone moved into the immediate area recently?"

"No, the newest resident we've got is Harry, and she moved in months ago. To tell you the truth, a lot of suspicion will fall on her. In fact, people are already talking that it could've been her."

"It wasn't." Sherlock took a last glance at the photos, gathering little useful information from them that he didn't already know, and turned to Dave, grabbing a pen and piece of paper from the table and writing on it. "This is my mobile number. Text if you get any updates. I won't answer calls." And with that, he left.

He sent a text to John as he was getting into the car. _Going to find some open spaces to fly and think. Be back for supper. SH_

He put the car in gear, disliking the odd way American cars were put together, and started to drive.

**Author's Note**: And as incentive to review, I'll tell you this- next chapter we get back to Jim and Molly, and phase two of the game will begin. (Phase one was getting Sherlock wings. Murdering Harry's girlfriend is just a small detail that was necessary to get the ball rolling for phase three.)


	16. Buzzard and Swan

**Author's Note:** I understand that it's finals week for a lot of you. And the last chapter really was dull. This is better, and the next will be better than this. It's all uphill from here- we've completed the segway from the Game's phase one to phase two, and phase three will start at about the same time as phase two- they overlap a bit. Actually, a lot. So phase one was getting Sherlock wings. Phase two will initiate this chapter and the next two or three. Then it's the real game.

So I am a little sad about how few reviews I got, but it was dull and it's a busy time for everyone- except me, apparently, because finals for me were weeks ago and summer is in full swing. I've been puppysitting and waiting for my summer job to start (at a prosthetics lab!) so I've had time to do this.

Anyways, thanks to IamDoctorWholocked! Good luck to everyone with their finals, moving back home, and all the rest of the crazy start-of-summer stuff.

**Chapter Sixteen**

"Wanna go flying tonight? It's supposed to be clear out, nothing in the sky but a big fat gibbous moon," I suggested, rubbing marinade on a roast while Sebastian cut up onions, the only thing I never diced, hating the smell that clung to my skin afterwards.

"Of course! Silly question, really. We'll do errand on the way, as well," Jim decided, crunching on a carrot stick. I frowned, something that didn't go unnoticed in those brown-and-gold eyes. "It's going to be fun, really. Your first real game, if you don't count the part you played in the fall at Bart's," he snickered.

"I guess. Are you sure we should to it tonight? Then he'll know for sure what's going on. Should we wait until he figures it out on his own?" I quested uncertainly.

"He's already got a suspicion at this point. You left the perfect amount of hints, Seb, nice work. By tonight he should be fairly sure, and that's good enough," Jim said carelessly.

"Thank you."

"Are you _sure_ you don't want wings?" Jim prodded the sharpshooter. Sebastian smiled easily.

"I'm sure. Maybe after this game, we can look into getting me a set, but I don't want to be fumbling with the things during this game. It's going to be a big one," he said decidedly.

"After, then. It would be so useful, especially for a man with your skills! You would hardly need to use a scope, because your eyes would be improved so much, and you could just fly up to the top of a building to shoot, rather than wasting time with stairs and elevators… we could get you some bird of prey. A red kite would be nice… Or a blue heron, the color would go well with your eyes," Jim mused.

"Well, just not now. I'm even more ordinary than Moll, so I wouldn't pick up on it as quickly. They would just get in the way." He said it without bitterness, just with a calm understanding.

"Well, let's hope John isn't so ordinary," Jim smirked. Sebastian smiled as well, and I sighed inwardly. I did feel a bit bad about doing this, helping Jim and switching sides, but _he_ had left me no choice. And anyways, if it had come down to a decision between Jim and _him_, it would've always been Jim. He was loyal and friendly and accepting and kind. Sherlock was none of those to me. In moving in with Jim and Seb, the quality of my life had gone up exponentially immediately (or, at least, after that painful first night) and I could hardly think of the reasons I'd stayed away initially.

Seb and I finished preparing supper and put it in the oven. We retreated to the sitting room while it cooked. Jim lay across the couch and I scowled down at him, wanting to sit there.

"Budge up, give me some room," I said, not unkindly. He pulled his shoulders and upper body up, freeing one of the cushions. I sat down and folded my legs under me, and he lay his head back down in my lap. I ran my fingers through his hair, which had grown longer and more tousled in the past few weeks. He smiled and closed his eyes.

I leaned forward slightly so I could stretch my wings out and let them hang on either side, before leaning back again. Much better. Jim absentmindedly preened some of the flight feathers on the bottom with his fingers. Sebastian went outside for a smoke.

"So how are you really feeling about this game? You aren't pleased, I can tell," Jim said.

"Mmm. I don't really know. I do feel a little bad about John, because he was always nice, but that's about it. It's just going to be strange to be working on this side now. Different. It's not unpleasant, it's just odd," I said, struggling to express myself. "I mean… I don't feel regretful or like I don't want to do it. I really do. I just… I don't know."

"Hmm. We'll corrupt you yet, Swan," he sing-songed, using his new favorite nickname for me.

That was my wings. Swan wings. At first I was a little disappointed- wasn't a swan a bit cliché?- but then Jim had explained the reasoning behind it, and I was much happier. He'd picked swan because I was the ugly duckling. I was suppressed and defeated and had all but given up on any chance of change in my boring life, my full potential locked away. My potential to be clever, to be beautiful, to be funny, to be loved- all of it was trapped inside me. And so I was the ugly duckling by Sherlock's hand, but by Jim's hand, I had become the swan. And I felt like it- I dressed better, I spoke more confidently, I wasn't afraid to present idea or witty remarks.

So I had big white wings, pure white, save for the feathers at the junction of my shoulders and my wings- they were black, but those usually were under a shirt so went unnoticed. I loved my wings- loved the feeling of the air beneath them, like a solid thing, loved their smell and color, loved to fold them around myself in a warm little cocoon.

The Ugly Duckling and the Buzzard. We sounded like an awful band or something, but somehow, I loved it.

His fingers moved to the black feathers at the base of my wings and tugged gently on one. I jumped slightly and shivered. He laughed and nuzzled the hand I was stroking his hair with. These gestures had always been common, the little touches and teases of friends, but now they were more intense, like spontaneous kisses or grabbing me into an impromptu dance. I didn't know if he thought of it as an adult version of our childhood friendly contact, or if he took it seriously.

I didn't really want to know- I liked to think it was just Jim being Jim, unexpected and flirtatious. We both pretended that the electricity wasn't there, actors that we were, him the flamboyant and I the subtle.

"It's just a game," he said. "Like everything else. You'll get used to it."

"I already am used to it," I argued lightly. In the months that I'd been staying with him, I'd helped with each new game he played. At first, it was a small role, bumping into someone at the right time, doing a little surveillance, background checks. And then it just grew, until I was the distraction or lure, or I helped Seb set up a fake murder scene, or clean up an actual murder scene. Truth be told… I was actually enjoying myself.

"But this is a new level. This is a _real_ game, with one of the big players. We're not just shuffling pawns and doing practice rounds, because that's all that stuff has been so far. This is a real competitor. _The_ real competitor. Or competitors, if you count John."

"John's a player," I said thoughtfully, trailing the back of my hand over the scruff at the edge of his jaw, enjoying the odd feeling. "He didn't do half bad at the pool. And he shot the cabbie."

"Mmm. He's not a queen or bishop or castle, but he's not a pawn, either. A horse," he decided. "Not particularly useful, but if properly placed he can do a little damage and put a wrench in things."

"A horse," I snorted. "Poor John. What a week he's in for."

"Maybe this will finally break up the lovebirds," Jim snickered, using his nickname for John and Sherlock. "John might finally realize that the source of his gray hairs and stress is Sherley."

"Fat chance. They're incredibly close."

"Whatever you say. You're the one who knows those things, relationships and loyalty and all that dull stuff."

"Sorry I'm so dull."

"I'm just messing, Molls," he moaned, rolling his eyes. "Well, you are dull. But you're not as dull as everyone else. Or you aren't anymore. You almost got as dull as everyone else for a while there." He let out a fake shudder of horror. "He's so awful. I lend him my toys and he almost breaks them."

I agreed heartily. My compassion only extended as far as John. Sherlock didn't deserve any more of my kindness. But Jim…

_I finally opened my eyes without pain. It had been slowly receding, agonizingly slowly, but then, suddenly it was gone, like a blanket pulled off my body. I blinked the salt from my eyes and rubbed them delicately, trying to get the dried tears out of my lashes. I sat up, putting my feet on the floor-_

_-And the lamp on the bed table crashed onto the floor. I stared at it with wide eyes. It was almost a meter and a half away from me._

_The wing that had knocked it off twitched and fluttered without me controlling it._

"_Jim?" I whispered, not sure why I was whispering. My voice was high and scared._

"_Right here, Molls. It's good to see you functioning right again," he said. I turned and saw him sitting in a chair by the head of the bed, on the opposite side my feet hung off of._

"_I… I'm okay now. But I can't… move them right," I said through my teeth, rotating my shoulders with frustration. It was like trying to figure out how to wiggle your ears- I just couldn't find the right muscles._

"_Here." Warm hands touched my wings and I jumped slightly. It was so alien- I could feel his hands, touching my wings. Wings I'd never had up until today. They felt incredibly sensitive and oddly cool. His hands moved down , over the part of my wings that connected to my back. I could feel it, where his hands were, because the wings were part of me. It helped me find the right muscles._

_So odd._

"_Feel here? Move these muscles. And these," he instructed, putting his hands on different places on my wings. His touch helped me find where to bend, where to move, and I turned my head as far around as I could and watched them fold up. I could feel the slightest breezes and air currents in the room, every movement of the air through my feathers. My feathers._

_My wings._

_I sucked in a deep breath and let it out shakily._

"_You must be hungry. C'mon, Seb made some excellent ravioli. No ricotta, just the way you like," he said, coming around the bed and offering his arm. I wasn't too weak to walk- on the contrary, I felt strong and so very alive (and very hungry). But it was like my body was new. Every motion, a bent knee, a foot raised then dropped, my hand on his elbow- it all felt new, fresh as the first time. I was a colt with new legs. _

_Like I'd been reborn._

Jim was there for me. Jim helped, he never hurt.

Jim.

We had supper when it was ready, discussing our plans and tactics for the night. I felt the thrill of adrenaline combined with the twist of nerves, now a familiar feeling, something I got before every game. It was oddly simple and straight forward- I'd always thought crimes were complicated and difficult. I felt the way I had always felt before races, an odd mix of relaxed, confident, and anxious. And… normal.

A part of me wondered when I'd signed myself onto the life of crime. The rest of me didn't particularly care- life was too sweet to worry about petty things like morals.


	17. Heist Part I

**Author's Note:** I apologize for my unannounced hiatus. You know how the need/want to write comes and goes. I'm not asking for forgiveness, just understanding, I suppose. Anyways, here's the next chapter. A bit short, but I fully intend to update tomorrow as well.

And I've finally got the ending laid out in my head, so that's good news!

**Chapter Seventeen**

Jim was there for me. Jim helped, he never hurt.

Jim.

We had supper when it was ready, discussing our plans and tactics for the night. I felt the thrill of adrenaline combined with the twist of nerves, now a familiar feeling, something I got before every game. It was oddly simple and straight forward- I'd always thought crimes were complicated and difficult. I felt the way I had always felt before races, an odd mix of relaxed, confident, and anxious. And… normal.

A part of me wondered when I'd signed myself onto the life of crime. The rest of me didn't particularly care- life was too sweet to worry about petty things like morals.

John had always been the most moral out of all of us London crime-scene folks, not me. He was more open and self-sacrificing than Lestrade, more kind and loyal than Donovan or Anderson, more generally humane than Sherlock, and more courageous and willing to stick to the 'right' ways than I. My morals had always been fair, but I was flawed in that I was a dreamer and a pushover.

"Am I immoral now? As a criminal?" I asked Jim. Sebastian began washing up, while Jim and I went upstairs to get ready for our night.

"Does it matter if you're immoral or not, or if you're a criminal now? Does that really matter to your happiness?" he said languidly.

I thought about that for a minute as I put a headband on. (The wind required my hair out of my face, but Jim loathed it when I put it in a ponytail.)

"No, it doesn't," I said honestly. He smiled and ran a hand over my shoulders gently as he walked by, whispering directly into my ear.

"Then why do you care?"

I smiled at my reflection and changed into a pair of warm, tight pants (loose clothing tended to flap in the wind and mess with my flight, as well as making an irritating noise) and a dark long-sleeve. Though it was fairly warm out, it was much colder at ten thousand feet, let alone fifteen thousand feet, where we would be cruising tonight, high enough that even if someone chanced to look up, we would just look like birds.

Contrary to popular belief, Jim didn't wear his Westwoods everywhere. He did wear them often, but he wasn't stupid. Flying was not suit-friendly, and though he did fly in suits often enough, when we were going out for the specific purpose of a flight, he opted for more functional clothes. He had enough poise to make that night's dark vintage jeans and maroon sweater look fancy anyways.

"Don't stay up, darling!" Jim called down the stairs to Sebastian receiving an unintelligible grumble in reply. He tossed me a small rucksack, which I pulled on with difficulty so it nestled between my wings, and tightened the straps. He got one on as well and grabbed my hand.

"Let the games begin," he intoned, before breaking into a grin. We ran off the balcony and into the air, having to let go of our hands to avoid smacking wings. High into the sky, our inspiratory muscles in our ribs taking over for our diaphragms as the air thinned and got cold. I arched my wings high above me and brought them down firmly, feeling the air like a solid thing beneath me. A lucky thermal pressed us high up to the heavens, away from the house (which we'd 'aquired' when a grouchy couple who regularly cheated on each other went on a very, very long 'vacation').

I fumbled in my pocket and attached an earpiece with a short mouthpiece to my ear, flying being natural enough that I could do it without having to divide my attention between flapping and putting the earpiece on. A few hundred feet to my left, Jim did the same thing. I pressed a button on it.

"White to brown, you there?" I giggled. He'd wanted us to be 'Swan' and 'Buzzard' but I had argued that he was anything but a buzzard.

"Obviously." His reply crackled in my ears. They were high-quality things, necessary for combating the noise of the wind. "You remember the route?"

"No," I replied. "You said you would look at the maps while I prepared the serums."

"Well, it's a good thing I looked at the maps, then." I snorted and rolled my eyes- what a joker.

"What will we do if someone comes in? Sherlock, or Harry?"

"We strike their skull with a blunt object. Put them out, not kill them. It doesn't matter much if someone sees us, as long as we get the job done. They'll know who did it, anyways. If they don't, then they aren't worthy competitors of the game."

"Right, of course. You'll be hitting them?" I asked incredulously. I was going to be administering the serum- oddly enough, Jim was squeamish around needles. A very odd quality for a sociopath criminal lord, but I remembered getting shots in school and having to both encourage him before and console him after. Sebastian had always done the serum before, but now it would be my job.

"It would seem so. I've hit people before," he sniffed. That was true- he'd gotten in some fights in middle school, when everybody except him went through an awkward stage, and he'd changed gracefully from a cute child to an attractive teen, lending much jealousy and animosity.

"Recently?"

"No, I haven't- but, God, Molls- we're hybrids now. You haven't noticed?"

"It's kind of hard not to, with _great bloody wings_-,"

"I mean noticed the strength."

"Not really, no… I know we're a bit stronger, but exactly how much stronger, I'm not sure. And I'm a woman, so genetically doomed to being physically weaker than men, always, and Harry is quite butch-,"

"Molly, if you were to fight Sebastian right now, you could beat him, I'm sure of it. You saw the energy and metabolism results when you worked with Sherlock-,"

"Not talking about that right now."

"-You know we're strong. When we get back, you and Seb can spar."

"I don't want to fight Seb!" I cried indignantly, swooping closer to him so he could see my expression. He smiled.

"We're veering a bit too far eastward. And there's a few houses coming up, let's get some more altitude."

We did as he said and my white wings beat hard to lift myself higher. "Yes, yes. You have the most awful ideas."

"If I recall, you find awfulness to be a terrific turn-on," he sniggered. Talking about Sherlock. I bit the mike, producing a loud screeching sound. "Ow, ah, sorry! I was just joshing you, Molls, you know that!"

"If you continue bringing him up, I'm going to rediscover my morals and join the force of good," I declared.

"Really? How do you think that would go for you?"

I scowled at the ground, so far below. Jim was right- I was a traitor, and as 'good' as the 'good' people were, they weren't known for giving second chances. My only home was with Jim. And that was where it had always been, really.

"Oh, no, I've upset you. You know I love you," he said demurely. "I just forget that you're so fragile now. Remember when you used to have the sharpest comebacks? Half of our schoolmates were terrified of us… I was the quiet one, and you were snappy sharp." He sighed loudly into the mic.

"Sorry, sorry… I'm getting better," I said defensively.

"I know. My patience has never been good, but I'll be patient for you."

All too soon, we were in the small town where our targets resided. We flew high up, circling slowly, specks in the sky, making sure the streets were empty and we were unseen. Jim was all for plummeting down without checking, but I'd both been warned by Sebastian and had seen his carelessness first hand, so I talked him down.

When we deemed it safe, we descended in a steep dive to the roof. It was a two-story house, like those around it, which was lucky- if any had been taller, we would've risked people seeing from their windows. As it was, I'd been in enough of Jim's games that I recognized that normal people were terrifically oblivious to their surroundings, especially of things above them. Nobody ever looked up. We landed, bending our knees and dumping the air at the last second for a light landing on the shingles.

I held up my hand, indicating for Jim to wait, and slid as quietly as I could (which was very quiet) down the roof. I gestured with my hands, and he lay across the roof, hooking his feet on the peak and grasping my feet, anchoring me so I could lean over the edge of the roof and look in the windows.

It was dark, but about a minute of staring forced my eyes to adjust. I saw a figure lying in bed, asleep. The pillow was depressed from a sleeping head-

-With black curly hair. For a moment I stared, and a rogue thought raced through my mind- _Stuff the plan, I'm just going to jump in and…_ but it ended there, as I wasn't exactly sure what I would do. Kill him? I couldn't murder someone.

I scrabbled to get back up on the roof fully, mouthing curses silently at the slightest noise. Jim helped pull me upright, and I shook my head at him, nodding toward a different spot to check the other window. We repeated the process, and now I could feel the adrenaline like a physical thing, rippling through my muscles, my eyes, my ears, amplifying every sense. This time, it took only a few seconds to see blond-gray hair and that familiar blunt, round nose.


	18. Heist Part II

**Chapter 18**

This time, it took only a few seconds to see blond-gray hair and that familiar blunt, round nose.

I turned and gave Jim a thumbs-up, and he released my feet as I grabbed the edge of the roof, burying my nails in the tarry shingles, swinging round and using my wings to help guide myself so I hung in front of the window.

Unlike Jim's bird eyes and Sherlock's feathers, I had a slightly weirder, but more functional, manifestation. My feet.

My ankles were thinner, my legs more tapered than ever, and my feet- they were thinner in the middle and the joints at the toes widened again, and my toes were longer. They weren't as disgusting as they sound- rather, I found them more soft and graceful than my thick, callused feet before. But my slightly longer toes were much more flexible- they had an extra joint. In the right light, the skin of them seemed almost translucent- it looked as though there was a black layer of skin deep beneath.

I loved them. Jim loved them. Sebastian said they scared the hell out of him.

Jim wanted to be the one to break in, but we concluded that I would be better at it. I turned my foot and leg, managing to get my toes around the edges of the screen, holding the sides. I tugged once, twice, my fingers aching, beating my wings once to get more pull, and managed to yank it off. I glanced down- below me was a hedge, fluffy looking, so I let the thing drop into it, watching the sleeping figure to make sure the muffled sound wouldn't wake him. It didn't.

I pushed my toes under the edge of the window, and pulled upward, praying that it wasn't locked. Prayers answered, it slid upward, making no sound as if assisting with the crime. I smiled and wiggled the pinkie of my hands, all I could manage without falling. I hoped Jim saw it and understood.

I swung my legs, making my body sway, until I was swinging out from the building and toward the window and back, building power and height, and I thought another little prayer, folded my wings, and let go at the peak of my swing toward the window.

I almost let go at too perfect timing, and had to catch the upper edge of the window to avoid bashing my face, and I swung feet-first in the window, landing on soft, silent feet in a crouch. I stared at the victim for a full minute without moving, but he didn't stir.

I glanced out the window at the sight of movement and saw Jim jump off the edge of the roof, fly a few feet away, turn, and swoop back, coming in the window head-first, tucking his wings at the last second. He nearly barreled into me, and I saw him fight giggles, same as I was.

I pointed at the door, at my eyes, and at him. He nodded and opened the door quickly to avoid it squeaking, and peered into the hall, keeping watch. I got to work on my part of the game.

Out of my rucksack came a small black case, not unlike a velvet necklace box. Inside were five syringes, lined up neatly. Three were yellow and large. One was clear and small. The last was very small, only five milliliters, and had a blue fluid in it.

The avian serum.

I began without hesitation, putting on rubber gloves and setting the black case on the bedside table and taking the clear syringe. When Jim had done Sherlock's first injection, he had done it in subtle places. However, the time for secrecy was gone. I pushed the needle through the thin fabric of the nightshirt and into the left shoulder, depressing the plunger quickly. This injection was just a knockout drug, something to keep him asleep for a little while.

I recapped the syringe and set it beside the case. The used syringes wouldn't come with us- they would remain here. Perhaps they would be a distraction, or they would be used as evidence against our victims. Either way, it would work out in our favor.

Next was the avian serum. Jim and I had debated over what type to use for a long time. He'd been partial to kingfishers, but I'd argued that they looked silly and didn't fit him. I wanted some kind of eagle, for their fierceness and majesty, but he'd laughed at that. We finally settled on an osprey, which wasn't quite an eagle, but was close enough. I liked the shaggy, unassuming look they had, along with the combination of gray and brown, like him. I figured it would fit well enough.

I was more careful with this injection, more out of habit then necessity. It was the most important one, so I didn't want anything to happen to it. I pulled up his sleeve and pulled the cap from the needle with my teeth, having something to chew on helping me concentrate. I was a pathologist, sure, but I wasn't as used to dealing with living things. Nonetheless, I found the vein quickly and sheathed the needle in it, doing the injection much more slowly.

Now I had to move quickly- the avian one would burn itself (or John) out if it didn't have fuel, and fast. I recapped it and dropped it on the table, snatching a yellow syringe and jabbing it right into his neck. Poor guy was getting a lot of holes today.

Then was the time for waiting. I checked my watch- we had to wait twenty minutes before the next injection of the yellow fluid, which was a cocktail of straight energy and stem cell initiators. Jim had explained the process best as he could- the stem cells would not only grow into avian tissue, but they would help the avian serum attack the rest of the body, stimulating the bone marrow to produce more stem cells as well. The organ changes came last, and by that point, we would be gone. That was where the pain came in.

Jim glanced over to check on my progress and I smiled at him, giving another thumbs up. He wrinkled his nose at the needles, but nodded encouragingly at me. I moved to his side.

He leaned into my ear to speak in the lowest of whispers. His breath tickled. "This is so exciting. We should wake everyone when we leave so they can see the grand finale."

"Good idea. How do you want to wake them?"

"I'll come up with something. It'll be good, don't you worry."

"Knowing you? I won't," I breathed back. I turned to check on our victim but he caught my wrist and pulled me back. He wasn't as tall as Sherlock, but he was still taller than I was, so his other hand put a finger beneath my chin to tilt my head up. He caught my lips in a scintillating kiss.

I grinned against his lips- games always made him like this, grabby and unexpectedly romantic. My point was proven when he dipped me like a movie star with an audience and swallowed my squeak of surprise. I sensed and heard, rather than saw, his wings flare happily. I found them to be better indicators of his mood than his face.

I finally (with an odd reluctance) pushed gently on his chest, and he stood me back up and drew away.

"We're on a _heist_," I hissed, but the brightness of my eyes and my slightly bent grin betrayed my lack of real anger.

"And you are Molly, and I am Jim," he replied, teasing my obvious statement. "Don't act all grumpy. You enjoyed it."

I snorted, which made him frown- he claimed it was rude and undignified, so I did it purposely to bother him- and I peered into the hall, making sure our whispered argument hadn't drawn any attention. It was silent and still.

The waiting was the worst part. Twenty minutes seemed to take two hours, but I'd seen the data, and a time span was necessary. Piling all the booster injections in at once would result in mutations- they had to be spread out, added just as the one before began to wear down. John was on his side, now, facing us, curled up slightly and face pulled in a subconscious frown. The hair at the peak of his forehead was damp with sweat.

Inside of him, a fever raged, stemming from two sources. The first source was the avian DNA-carrying virus, which his body was fighting, albeit half-heartedly, because most of its energy was being used by the virus to change him. The second was that energy being used- the reactions and metabolism in his body were at such a high rate that it was actually inducing a temperature change. Like an engine overworking, his body was heating up.

It was the first time I'd seen this process with my own eyes, not being debilitated by pain and experiencing it first-hand. I quickly shed my boredom after the second booster was administered, when John rolled onto his back. At Jim's instruction, I found a knife in the bedside table (once a military man, always a military man) and cut the back of his shirt open, carving a neat hole without once nicking him.

His wings were already half formed. It was a grotesque process- Jim looked away in disgust. I watched with fascination as the skin over his shoulderblades bulged. It was like one of those films where it shows a flower growing and blooming in a few seconds- interesting, but something about it was very unnerving. Two pale lumps, new skin white and powdery looking, bulged out of his back, and as I watched, they slowly distorted and distended.

"Bloody hell," I breathed, unable to contain myself, not wanting to look but unable to look away.

The process is impossible to describe in words in this language, or any other. It was disturbing and entrancing, like watching an egg hatch, gross and oddly beautiful at the same time. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before. If I were an artist, I doubted I could draw it, just as I couldn't explain it.

The formation of the bones beneath that new flesh, the development of the feathers, the adipose layers of his back literally withering away as his body devoured energy, fueling this alien change come over him, and I watched, feeling a bit ill.

The process slowed until it was mostly complete, the big, fragile-looking wings spread over his back. Looking from mine to his, I could see a slight difference where I'd built up muscle for flying. A stab of pity struck me, an odd thing in those days. He would have a rough time ahead of him.


	19. Osprey

**Why is it I only get my motivation to write when I've got no spare time? Sheesh.**

**My sincerest apologies. Summer always comes with writer's block. Chilly fall winds cultivate the words much better than sunshine does, apparently.**

The process slowed until it was mostly complete, the big, fragile-looking wings spread over his back. Looking from mine to his, I could see a slight difference where I'd built up muscle for flying. A stab of pity struck me, an odd thing in those days. He would have a rough time ahead of him.

"Do the last injection," Jim told me. While I'd watched, he'd wandered around the house against my protests- what if he woke someone up? But he was quiet, and avian-light, and nobody woke. He was holding Sherlock's violin, tucking the end under his chin, standing in the doorway. I uncapped the final booster and pushed it into John's arm, where I'd administered the second one (not having to use the neck, as I wasn't rushed for time like the first one) and then removed it, setting it with the other empty needles. I slung my rucksack back on and shook out my wings.

"Ready?" Jim asked. I nodded, sitting on the windowsill.

He drew the bow across the strings, shaking it, producing a horror-movie-esque scream of the strings. I should've known, what with his dramatic tendencies. Then, for good measure, he smacked the button on the smoke detector in the ceiling, and the house was filled with the wailing of alarms. He tossed the violin aside, after spinning the knobs to put it out of tune, a little touch that was very Jim.

I threw myself out the window, laughing, feeling juvenile, hearing curses and shouts from Harry and Sherlock's rooms. John made a groaning sound- but he wasn't to wake up for another few minutes.

Jim followed me out the window, and we flew nearly straight up, getting altitude so we would be spots in the sky in case the neighbors or anyone thought to look up. Doubtful.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

Sherlock heard the noise and, for a wild moment, he was entirely certain that London was going to come crashing down on his head.

Genius consulting detective or not, he wasn't on his game at the moment of consciousness. He was only human- or not, he supposed.

His synapses firing properly again, he jolted upright, blinking sleep from his eyes. The noise was coming from John's room. His violin. Being tortured. What was John doing- but no, John doesn't touch his violin. He wouldn't play it in the middle of the night, at his sister's house, and wouldn't play it that terribly.

Then the noise was coming from everywhere. The fire alarms, screeching like damn bloody demons. His ears throbbed and he stumbled out of bed, legs propelling him in a general walk-jogging motion toward John's room. He felt a chill on his chest and his wings fold behind him- since developing wings, he preferred to sleep without a shirt on, so he was clad only in cotton pants.

Open window, open door- and John usually slept with both shut- and wings lying across the bed and John, John all curled up, an expression (awful expression!) that would best be described as 'in a shitting ton of pain' on his face, syringes on the bedside table.

Moriarty. It didn't take Sherlock's genius level deductions to realize that. He was skidding to his knees beside John in moments.

_Barely waking up- he's usually a light sleeper, since the war, so he's been drugged. Track marks on his left arm, avoiding his right, maybe because Moriarty knows he's right handed and wants to spare that arm, more likely because that was closest to the edge of the bed. Small spot of blood on his shoulder- where the first injection went, the drug that put him to sleep, done hurriedly before he could wake, not bothering to carefully inject like the others, so they were done after the sleeping drug. Feather patterns are distinctly osprey. If it was Moriarty's choice, he would pick something silly and brightly colored for 'my pet', so the choice wasn't just his- Molly._

He deduced all of this in a matter of seconds, while taking John's pulse (fast and rather panicky) and temperature (quite high). Moriarty- and Molly- hadn't poisoned him. They'd given him the serum.

"What the hell-!?" a voice (Harry, shit) behind him exclaimed, rough with sleep and anger. He turned around when she went silent, running a curious eye over her. Harry was usually the shouting type, but she had gotten quiet.

Ah, yes, the wings. He recalled Molly's reaction to them, and John's- both surprised and shocked. Yes, so based on previous data, Harry would react similarly.

She grabbed the doorframe, mouth hanging open. Finally, she gained her voice back.

"What the _flip_ is going on here?!"

Except she didn't say 'flip'.

Sherlock ignored her and studied the syringes and the wings, trying to absorb as much information as possible. John moaned weakly, beginning to stir. Sherlock knew what came next- he'd experienced it. And now John was about to go through the same hell to get his wings. He snagged a bucket from beside the desk, knowing he would be sick, and turned to Harry.

"Do you think you could help me move him to the bathroom? It would probably be easier that way- we can keep his fever down and not have to worry about him vomiting everywhere." Just as he spoke, John moaned again and began to cough. "Damn, too late."

"What the… what the hell… Dear God," John muttered, wrapping his arms around his middle as the pain began. He coughed harder, and it turned into a retch.

The sight of John upchucking his guts into a bucket seemed to clear Harry's head, of all things. She disappeared and came back quickly with a damp cloth and glass of water, countless nights spent taking care of drunk friends (or her drunk self) making the scene familiar, if she could ignore the wings everywhere.

As she mopped at John's forehead (he was done vomiting and was breathing through his teeth tightly, as if in pain) she turned back to Sherlock. He sighed, bracing himself for the questions, but was surprised at the first question she asked.

"_Who_ did this to him?"

It would seem the brother-sister protectiveness mechanism could be useful.

MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH

I swooped low, unafraid of being spotted, which was a nice change. I skimmed over the treetops, enjoying the thrill and the wind. I heard a faint noise above me, and barrel-rolled to the side just in time to avoid Jim's dive.

"Too slow!" I called, laughing.

"No, too loud is my problem. Buzzard is _way_ faster than swan," he retorted.

"However, Molly is _way_ faster than Jim," I shot back.

"Race you to that elm," he declared, pointing to a tree a distance away- about half a mile

"Same altitude- no diving," I said by way of agreement.

"Readysetgo!" he called. I beat my wings hard, accelerating quickly. Flying was much faster than running, so half a mile was more of a speed race than an endurance race, like it would be if it was done on foot.

He was close beside me, but I didn't turn to look- looking behind was the best way to inadvertently slow down. I could hear him, and barely see him in my peripherals. He pulled ahead of me in the initial acceleration, but I could see that I was catching up.

The rush was incredible.

Like a race car, I pulled up beside him, closing the distance he had on me. The elm was coming up fast, and I poured the energy into my wings, pointing my toes and flattening my arms to my side, trying to become more aerodynamic, squeezing out every bit of speed I could.

We shot over the tree, blowing by like a rocket, screaming toward the heavens as we arced upward and killed our speed slowly. Neither of us knew who won, though Jim insisted he did. I agreed, because that was part of why we were so good together- he needed to win and I didn't care much about spotlight and having the title of 'winner'.

We shared the stars and the night sky in that fashion, diving and racing and swooping in graceful patterns around each other.


	20. Merica!

**Very short chapter, because I just posted yesterday. But I feel bad for leaving all y'all high and dry for so long… this is more of a gesture of apology, saying, hey look I posted yesterday and today too, I'm here to stay!**

**So yeah. Thanks to lostmypen120.**

We shared the stars and the night sky in that fashion, diving and racing and swooping in graceful patterns around each other.

When we finally returned, the sky was growing magenta with the impending sunrise. Sebastian was asleep, so we changed into pajamas and sat on the counter, sharing a bowl of popcorn.

"Let's make the call," he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. I looked at him sharply.

"What, now?"

"Right now." He was already opening one of the drawers and removing a small, cheap, disposable mobile that we'd purchased a few weeks earlier in preparation. A messy bunch of wires and chips and mikes were attached to the bottom to distort Jim's voice so it wouldn't be recognizable.

"But I've been up all night, I want some sleep! And you know how pissy Seb is when you wake him-,"

"Swan, am I anything but thorough? It'll take many hours to get the warrants, amass a properly trained force, get them here, and do the bit of research necessary to back up the anonymous tip. We've got plenty of time to sleep and pack," he said dismissively, punching in the numbers. "Now hush."

My mouth hung open in indignation and surprise for a moment before I shut it, snapping my teeth together. It would be enough for us- it would give us enough time to sleep well, shower, pack, and maybe go out to lunch.

"Hello, I'm calling to report a bit of information," Jim said in a very authentic American accent. "It's about the Imperial Labs incident. Two people, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stole important serums that were meant for genetically engineering an avian-homo-sapien hybrid, and burned the place down to cover up for it. They have used the serums on themselves and are planning to sell it to the highest bidder in the Middle East." He spouted off Harry Watson's address and hung up.

"See? Done," he said, his grin huge. And infectious. I found myself smiling, riding yet another adrenaline rush.

"Oh, gimmie that," I laughed, reaching for the phone. I took it from him and put it on the floor, then jumped off the counter to land heel-first on it. It crunched beneath my foot, and I picked it up and put it in the sink, running water over it for good measure.

"Bedtime now, darling, we're on a schedule," Jim drawled carelessly, offering the bowl to me. I grabbed a handful of the seeds from the bottom and crunched on them, enjoying Jim's wince. They were my favorite part, much to his disgust.

I rinsed the bowl in the sink and he snorted at my care and headed upstairs without another word. Adrenaline rushes didn't last long for him anymore, and I could sense that he was ready to be away from everyone for a while. I doubted he was going to sleep, but I yawned, so I decided that, even if he didn't, then I would.

Up to my room, brushing my teeth in the bathroom, and crawling into bed, I let my mind fade to gray, blank and eerily lifeless, a sort of autopilot practice I'd adopted when I was very young.

I didn't want to think about anything- the game, the man I'd grown up with sleeping in the room beside mine, the two Londoners a few miles away fretting over newfound wings, the Americans scrambling to respond to the anonymous tip. I didn't even want to think of Detective Inspector Lestrade, an ocean away, struggling without his consulting detective, or poor Toby, in the care of the servants at Jim's estate in England.

Empty and gray. I lie awake for a long time, thinking nothing, hardly breathing.

**You guys see the plan yet? There will be action, of course- darn Americans and their guns.**

**Feedback please? Kthanx!**


	21. A Most Unpleasant Epiphany

I didn't want to think about anything- the game, the man I'd grown up with sleeping in the room beside mine, the two Londoners a few miles away fretting over newfound wings, the Americans scrambling to respond to the anonymous tip. I didn't even want to think of Detective Inspector Lestrade, an ocean away, struggling without his consulting detective.

Empty and gray. I lie awake for a long time, thinking nothing, hardly breathing.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

"I have _wings!_" John shouted, throwing his hands up, sitting at the kitchen table. He was sitting in a chair sideways- after struggling for three whole minutes to sit normally with his fresh muscles, he'd given up and turned it so the back was to his left side. Sherlock was sitting in a chair (backwards, so he could rest his hands on the back and his chin on them) looking meditative. Harry was pacing in front of the counter.

"Obviously."

"Wings, Sherlock. Great, big, _bloody wings_, and you tell me to calm down and have some _toast_?!"

"That's what you normally do in the morning. I assumed that a familiar, normal ritual would help calm you," Sherlock said loftily.

"It's going to take a hell of a lot more than breakfast to calm me down."

"I suggested toast, not breakfast. Breakfast would include your morning coffee, and with your stress levels so elevated already, coffee would only serve to raise your blood pressure even higher and give you severe health problems."

"Both of you shut up," Harry snapped, slapping a hand on the table, palm down, with a bang. Both men jumped slightly and looked at her. "John eat some toast. I'm not making it for you. Sherlock, why don't you make some for all of us? I need some or I'm going to have an ulcer." She looked at him for a moment, chewing on the inside of her lip, and turned to John. Her eyes flickered to his wings for a moment, but she drew up her resolve and stared resolutely at his face instead. "Is he even safe to be using a toaster?"

"Yes," John said.

"Of course I am," Sherlock grumbled, getting up and going to the counter. John hid a grin- Harry had asked that not just to make sure he wasn't going to burn her house down, but to also display a hint of doubt, which would make sure Sherlock made toast, if only to prove her wrong. Clever girl.

"Now, what are our priorities? This Jim guy, what do you think his next move will be?"

"Not sure. Trying to predict his actions don't work," Sherlock said.

"I got a nice new jacket of _Semtex_ last time we tried," John grumbled. Harry blinked, but to her credit, didn't ask.

"Okay… so why do you think he was so obvious this time? He left the needles, and woke us all up before leaving. He wanted us to know it was him, and left everything here to be analyzed or whatever. No attempt at subtlety," she reasoned.

"Not sure," Sherlock said again.

"Take a guess," she said with exasperation.

"I'd say he's done with this part of the plan. Something is going to happen next, maybe soon, that is bigger than this-,"

"Bigger than _this?_" John snorted, wiggling his wings uncoordinatedly.

"-that will take attention off John's wings. So they don't matter anymore."

"Should I be concerned?" Harry asked slowly.

"I don't know," he replied carelessly, removing the toasted bread and artfully spreading jam on it (if jam can be artfully spread). He stacked the pieces and put them in the middle of the table, and they were all quiet for a moment, munching thoughtfully.

"Why don't we sleep on it?" John suggested, rubbing his face tiredly and frowning at the empty plate.

"Why?" Sherlock asked bemusedly. "What a waste of time."

"Well, you can stay up, then. I'm going back to bed," John grumbled, standing, knocking a picture off the wall with one of his wings. He swore.

"Maybe you can help me with these first," he suggested sheepishly.

"Come here, and stand. No, back-to," Sherlock said curtly, turning him around and ducking under his wings so John was standing in front of him, back and wings facing him. Sherlock roughly grabbed one and began bending the joints.

"Feel what's bending, connect the nerves to the area. Wingtips, the arch of the top of your wings, connector joint," he explained as he folded and unfolded the wing for John.

"A little more gentle?" he barked, yelping when he tugged on one of his feathers. Sherlock frowned and eased up, moving the joints more slowly and moving to the other wing. He remembered how gentle Molly-

No. Not there. All of that was in a locked room in the dungeon of his mind palace. Buried.

After a minute of trial and error, John managed to fold them on his back and unfold them at will, though it took him longer than Sherlock liked to get them tucked through slits in a shirt Sherlock had tugged on him.

"You especially need to practice that. These must stay hidden, nobody can know. Imagine what would happen if the American… government… found out…" Sherlock stopped suddenly, a look of realization spreading across his face as his sentence petered out.

"_What_?" John asked. "And _yes_, you have to spell it out for us."


	22. A Hurried Flight

**I know the last couple posts haven't been that long, but it's because there's action now, and even though my writer's block is mostly gone, I'm not very far ahead. And... I can't resist... the urge... to cliff...**

**Thanks to Empress of Verace and lostmypen120!**

"You especially need to practice that. These must stay hidden, nobody can know. Imagine what would happen if the American… government… found out…" Sherlock stopped suddenly, a look of realization spreading across his face as his sentence petered out.

"What?" John asked. "And _yes_, you have to spell it out for us."

"Harry, thank you for your hospitality, but John and I have to run. Literally. Pack your things," Sherlock ordered, dashing up the stairs to his room to begin throwing his things in his bags, packing one small rucksack with the barest necessities in case they had to ditch the car and the rest of their luggage.

"Sherlock! _What_ is going on?" Harry said, storming after him, looking on in bewilderment as John obeyed his orders without question or hesitation.

"The American government. That's why Moriarty and Hooper left the evidence in the open- they _want_ it to be found. They've turned us over to the authorities and will let them do all the chasing. The SWAT teams and secret service could be on their way now."

"The _United States SWAT_ teams and the _secret service_ are on their way to my house _right now_?!" The chemist winced, and wished he had his lab things- he was sure that if she was half an octave higher, she could break glass.

"It must run in the family, this repeating thing," he mumbled, arranging the rucksack between his wings and grabbing his bags. "JOHN! Leaving NOW!"

"But… What am I supposed to do? When they get here?" Harry exclaimed, grabbing his elbow and pulling him to a stop.

"Tell them whatever you want. The truth. Or tell them that John and I fled in the night, or pretend not to know anything. You spent most of your youth lying to your parents, so lying to strangers will be much easier. Good luck," he said curtly, pushing past her and following John down the steps.

They loaded the car and got in quickly. Sherlock threw their GPS out the window as they pulled out.

"Dig out the paper atlas from under your seat. They can track our GPS," he told John.

"What about our cell phones?"

"Mycroft made arrangements long ago that assured our phones couldn't be tracked." He allowed himself a small smile, and chuckled once.

"You're _laughing?_"

"Just realized- Mycroft will be furious. This'll throw him for a loop, his brother suddenly being discovered- by _Americans_, no less- to have wings and have stolen science that isn't supposed to exist, and being wanted by the government. Right under his nose, too. He'll put on two stones from this one." He chuckled again.

John started to laugh too, a slightly hysterical, disbelieving laugh that made his throat, already burned from bile, hurt.

"Oh, God, Sherlock, what are we doing?" he asked after he caught his breath. "Why aren't we flying?"

"You don't know how yet, and they'll be expecting that."

John leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "I can't believe this is actually happening."

Sherlock frowned, confused. "Why not?"

John started to laugh again. Or it could've been crying, or a bit of both. Sherlock never could tell the difference between the two.

They drove until the sun rose, and then kept driving after that. They stopped twice, to hastily buy fast food and use the restrooms. Sherlock had to decide between drawing attention with ordering massive portions or going hungry. Deciding their strength was necessary, as discretion could only last for so long, he went ahead and ordered the four burgers his stomach cried out for.

He missed his old appetite.

He let John sleep for four hours. He was driving North, toward Canada, but rather than go straight up, which would be predictable, he would go diagonal, toward the Bay of Fundy, up through Maine where the defense and border patrol would hopefully be sparse. His plan was to ditch the car on this side of the border, cross by air, and then regroup on that side. Moriarty and Hooper were likely going to follow, wanting to stay close to the action and give them nudges if they started to get too far ahead of the Americans. He would predict their actions and trap them, find out the ultimate goal and either thwart it or accomplish it, depending on what it was and how far he was willing to go to end this game.

When he woke John so they could stop for the second time, they were almost a two-thirds of the way there, just entering Maine. Sherlock explained the plan to him quickly, knowing that he usually had a hard time keeping up unless he explained everything.

"How are we going to trap them?"

"Let them think they've trapped us. Leave them a clue or a hint as to where we are, and wait for them to arrive. The only problems is that it has to be a hint that only they will figure out, not the Americans," he mused.

"We could-," John began, but neither of them ever found out what he was going to say, as they were rather rudely interrupted by sirens.

John let loose some creative swears instead and turned to look at the black car following them, speeding up, lights flashing. An undercover police car.

"FBI, actually. They usually drive unmarked black vehicles. The firepower will be here in moments."

"We should've gotten a different car. Stole one or something," John exclaimed.

"Thought about it, but that would take more time, and would leave a trail of where we went, and a stolen car would get the police involved. Because none of this is supposed to actually exist, we're only up against the FBI, CIA, and a few other undercover operations."

"'Only', that's bloody brilliant," John growled, clutching the handle of the door fearfully as Sherlock wove through traffic. He was glad they'd rented a small, relatively quick car. A pair of black sports utility vehicles practically rocketed onto the highway on the on ramp that opened up beside them, and Sherlock swerved around them.

John turned around in his seat to see the SUV's expertly drift their vehicles back facing forward and give chase without slowing down at all. He swallowed, adrenaline kicking in, wishing he had some sort of weapon. He knew his gun would be next to useless in this situation, but it would've made him feel better.

"And Mycroft can't pull strings for this one?"

"Please. You think these guys will listen to him, even if he is practically parliament himself? They're _American_," Sherlock snorted as another three black vehicles (two fast, angry looking black muscle cars and another SUV) entered the highway.

One of the SUV's was drawing even with their car.


	23. No Time Left

**Thanks to Empress of Verace, lostmypen120, and Kudo Shinichi Tanteisan!**

**I'll post one other chapter this week, probably. Fall break is coming and I'm going home for a few days, and have a lot to take care of at the University first. I haven't made a whole lot of progress with getting ahead with the chapters, but I'm going to try to continue posting three chapters a week.**

"Please. You think these guys will listen to him, even if he is practically parliament himself? They're _American_," Sherlock snorted as another three black vehicles (two fast, angry looking black muscle cars and another SUV) entered the highway.

One of the SUV's was drawing even with their car.

"Sherlock," John said warningly.

"I see him. Under your seat, there are a few water bottles. Pass me one," he said calmly. John did as he said with confusion. "Now steer." He let go of the wheel, leaving John to lunge for it and struggle to keep them on the road. "Keep it steady!" Sherlock scolded.

The pale man rolled down the window and gave the bottle a few shakes. His companion noticed it wasn't water inside, but a milky substance, just as Sherlock leaned out the window and threw it at the SUV's windshield.

The effect was breathtaking. The bottle exploded with impressive force, shattering the windshield and leaving the driver of the SUV to swerve and crash off the road into the woods. John turned around and let Sherlock take the wheel again, but all he saw was smoke and dust roll out from the woods.

"'the HELL was that!?" he exclaimed, eyes wide, picking his feet up and away from the bottles nervously.

"A simple yet explosive mix of toilet cleaner and aluminum foil. Got it at the last gas station," he explained casually. "I couldn't bring any conventional military grade weapons with me on the plane."

"You usually travel with military weapons?"

"When I can. Don't you?"

"No, Sherlock. I don't."

Sherlock opened his mouth, presumably with a snarky reply, when everything seemed to explode. The car blew up.

No, the car didn't blow up. One of the sleek muscle cars had come flying out of the smoke and dust and rammed them at a slight angle.

They fishtailed once, then began spinning completely around. Sherlock was shouting something, but John couldn't hear him. He covered his head and brought up his knees to try to protect his organs, and the car went off the road and began rolling, crashed into something (trees?) and lurched to a stop.

A few moments of silence passed, then John's hearing returned, and he uncurled. He was covered in tiny cuts that stung and burned, caused by the windows imploding. His neck ached something awful from whiplash, his entire torso felt crushed from his seat belt, and then, the worst, his ankle burned like fire from reasons yet unknown.

But he was alive. Somehow.

"John," a voice rasped. Who…? Oh, the other occupant of the car. The person… driving? Sherlock! Right, right.

"Alive," he replied, looking around. The car was bent around a tree. He was glad nobody had been in the back seat- they would've been killed to death. Sherlock looked a bit worse, blood oozing slowly down his forehead and a bruise already forming on his cheekbone, but still functional.

"Your foot."

Yes, that pain. He looked down and wished he hadn't. His door had bent in and was trapping his foot against the seat. He could see a spot where the sharp metal of the door was pressed against his ankle so hard and had cut it down to the bone. At least the skin was shallow there, so even though he could see bone, it wasn't that awful. Or wasn't relatively that awful. Could've been worse- if it had been a few centimeters in either direction, it would've severed major muscles necessary for motion. He needed to stop the blood flowing.

"Yep. Help," he said through gritted teeth as the pain really began pushing through the shock. He heard sirens. "Quick."

Sherlock climbed across the car, scattering bits of glass, and examined the door for a moment. He grabbed a piece of the broken dashboard and braced it against the bent door.

"Take a deep breath," he advised. John had just enough time to suck in a lungful of air before Sherlock threw himself against the homemade lever. The door bent with a screech that matched John's bellow of pain. He found his buckle and released it, and Sherlock helped pull him out through the smashed windshield.

He could put weight on it, but not a lot. It wouldn't stand for long.

"We have to fly," Sherlock said breathlessly, licking a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. He hobbled stiffly back to the car, wrenched the trunk open, and managed to extract the emergency rucksack he'd filled.

"I don't know how," John reminded him, tying a piece of the cloth upholstery around his ankle as a bandage, tight as his battle-steady hands could tie it.

"You'll learn. Come on," Sherlock insisted. He began running through the woods and John charged after him, still running mostly on adrenaline.

They'd only ran a few meters before the terrible sound of people chasing them met their ears.

"They're-,"

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said tightly, struggling around his own injuries from the accident. He had at least one fractured rib on his left side, had split his head (no concussion, just a bruise and some blood on his skull) and sprained his elbow. It had been his side that had hit the tree, so he knew he was lucky, even with the injuries he suffered.

He pushed through the pain, running hard, something so familiar, but now so… different. Like when he'd run for the first time after getting his wings, he felt very little fatigue and muscle strain. It was like his body had been working, but slightly out of tune. Not enough to notice until it was finally tuned exactly, and then suddenly everything worked better.

Like running.

He saw John's look of frustration as he sped up, and then surprise when he found he could keep up without difficulty. He'd witnessed Sherlock's increased agility, but it was very different to experience it first hand. Their pursuers didn't stand a chance. Already, they were falling behind at a delightfully rapid rate. His legs felt like steel- he was sprinting, and it was so easy-

A bullet whizzed past his knee and he yelped.

"They aren't looking to kill us," Sherlock said, breathing steadily around his words, "just incapacitate us and take us alive."

"_Great_," John said in a scathing tone. Another bullet slammed into a tree trunk beside him, and he jumped slightly, wings flaring and pushing against the inside of his shirt.

"John, they are going to take us down. That _was_ a kill shot. They're going to kill us unless we fly. Or kill one of us- they only need to question one," Sherlock said firmly.

"Oh, _God_," John pushed through his teeth in a sort of whine.

"You have to fly." _CRASH_, went another tree. They were shooting more quickly now as John and Sherlock got farther out of range. "FLY! _NOW!_" Sherlock bellowed suddenly.

John didn't need telling twice. Bursting with adrenaline, chased by foreigners with guns, running through a strange land after being nearly killed in a car, he didn't need much more encouragement. Once a soldier, always a soldier, and if there was one thing a soldier knew how to do, it was to use whatever could be used to just. Stay. Alive.

John had a resource most soldiers didn't have- wings. There was one simple thing in his way- he didn't actually know how to fly.

But like _hell_ was something little like that going to be the death of Doctor Captain John Watson.

His wings pushed out of the cuts in the back of his shirt and jacket, tearing the fabric more in his rush. He beat them once, twice, three times, and pushed with his legs, jumping into the air, breathing evenly and with determination.

For a second, he dropped and rose unsteadily, bobbing in the air, but he gained confidence (inspired by shouting and more rapid gunshots) and rose above the trees, Sherlock close behind.

Within moments, the gunmen were far behind, and had no doubt that they'd found the ones they'd been tipped off about.

The game was on.


End file.
